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A ROMANCE 


HcL.'PINEF^ 

ATTHOR OF “WHERE THE LILIP^S BLOOIM” 

“oazelep: and swan” “a soul 

THAT PASSED IN 'THE 

night” etc. 

“No stream from its source 
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, 

But what some land is gladdened. 

No life 

Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.” 

— Robert Lord Lytton. 


OTH 

OF^THE CIVIL WAR 




VAN ALSTYNE, TEXAS: 

LEADERfUIBLISHIJM© HOUSE 
1895 





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COPYRIGHT 189^. All Rights Reserved . 




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PKEFACE. 

In childhood the author sat at the feet 
of a wounded soldier and heard the story 
of Ki th Montaye. After a quarter of a 
century, this little, unpretentious volume 
appears as the^crystalization of that nar- 
rative. 

II. L. P. 

Baker Heights, Oct. Ih, 1895. 


I 


W. B. DUNCAN, 


DEDICATION. 


TO 



MY FAITHFUL FRIEND 


TRIED IN ADVERSITY TESTFH) IN PROSPER-. ' 

ITY BUT EVER THE SAME; WHOSE 

(X:)MPANIONSHIP FOR MANY 
YEARS HAS BEEN A BEN- 
EDICTION AND AN 


INSPIRATION 


\ 








I. 


In the early sixties, on Shelby Street, 
Memphis, Tennessee, in a typical old 
Southern mansion, lived a wealthy pack- 
et owner, Robert Montaye, and Ruth, his 
only child, a beautiful girl of eighteen. 
Late one afternoon, the father sat in his 
home alone, reading the local news. He 
read and re-read this simple little item : 

“The bank which has just' opened on 
Main Street is one of the strongest finan- 
cial concerns in the South. Mr. Felix 
Manning is its president and manager. 
He is also the owner of all the capital 
stock, which amounts to $100,000.00, be- 
sides an immense surplus commandable 
at any time. Added to this, iMr. Man- 
ning has recently inherited a rich legacy 
in Scotland, which country he has visited 
for the purpose of settling up the estate.’* 


• 8 

Mr. ]\Iontaye folded the paper and 
nnised a long while; then he soliloquized: 

“This is gratifying to a father, who, 
even before Mr. Manning’s good luck, 
had earnestly hoped to call him ‘ son-in- 
law.’ But I verily believe she would be- 
come the wife of an illiterate and boorish 
Squire rather than the companion of an 
untitled banker.” 

Twilight fell upon the city, and he 
slept in his chair. AVaking, his eyes 
traced the dim outlines of an old sword 
that hung from a painting on the wall. 
Then he dropped into a half-dreaming 
reverie over the AVar then raging l^etween 
the North and South. If he should be 
called upon to enlist, what would become 
of Ruth? In the midst of these cogita- 
tions, Ruth burst into the room. 

“O, Papa, the Alontaye mansion will 
be immortalized on the evening of the 
^5th. The Governor and his charming 
wife will grace the occasion; and Senator 
Blount will be here — and Judge Taylor — 
and General Carney — and Alajor Hen- 
drix — and General Pi-ice — and — ” 

“Yes, daughter, it shall ])e the most 
superb reception in the history ,of the 


9 

city. You luay place my best boat, 

‘ Boniiybell,* at the disposal of the party. 
An ex(*ursion on the Mississippi would be 
delightful. I shall see that every delica- 
cy of two zones goes on board ahead of 
them. We shall make it royal, and the 
chief distinction shall be yours. But, 
Ruth, do you know that it somehow makes 
me strangely sad?” 

“ AVhy, Papa, you astonish me I May 
I ask you why? ” 

“ It is because you seem to see only 
the display of titles instead of the distin- 
guished personages of the occasion. My 
dear child, this is a real, substantial 
world. It is not made up of high-blown 
military insignia, nor of royal robes. 
Titles are but toad-stools, empty and 
mushrooniy. You cannot live in air- 
castles, nor subsist on ether. Fancy may 
dwell there, but flesh and blood — never.” 

“Ought we to renounce our friends 
because they have American titles? ” 

“Not at all on that account only. I 
merely mean to say that a title is too often 
but a seal-skin cloak, made to lit a lion, 
perhaps — perhaps a donkey. Your own 
enthusiastic predilection for titles has 


10 

probably embittered me against them, for, 
Ruth, you know it has crossed the one 
great purpose of my life.” 

“And that is the hope that I may 
marry that miserly old banker, Felix 
Manning.” 

“ He is a polished gentleman — a man 
of rich experience, and — of gold.” 

“And grey hairs — and wrinkles — and 
false teeth — ugh I I hate grey hairs — and 
gouty feet^ — and false teeth — and thin lips 
— and wrinkles.” 

“ But they are not so bad when accom- 
panied by a soothing abundance of aristo- 
cratic blood — and half a million cash.” 

“ I should not object to the aristocratic 
blood, nor indeed to the cash; but — wrin- 
kles — false teeth — gouty feet — couldn’t 
endure them for forty years yet.” 

She made a regular pantomime of her 
words, grimacing her whole countenance 
for “wrinkles,” grinning for “false 
teeth,” and hobbling about in a comical 
way for “ gouty feet.” It was her pur- 
pose to laugh the conversation into a 
jest, but it was evident that the more 
hilarious she became, the more serious 
his manifestations. He twisted his mus- 


11 

tache, rested his ell)ow on the arm of his 
chair, buried his forehead in his palm, 
knit his brows, and solemnly said: 

“ Ruth, will you refuse the dying re- 
quest of your mother? ” 

“ O, Papa, spare me that memory. If 
she could be called back to this home, if 
she could see my heart, she would revoke 
that request to-night. Compliance would 
make me a living martyr. There is no 
conjugal affinity between us. I could 
never love him.” 

“ Daughter, you inust love him.” 

“ Love will not be coerced. It is 
spontaneous and free, or nothing.” 

“ But his wealth added to ours would 
make us the richest people in the South.” 

“The jingle of the guinea is poor mu- 
sic to the ear of martyred affection. 
The ‘chink I chink I’ of gold offered to 
buy a woman’s heart, is a signal for a wo- 
man’s honor to rel^el. Often and over 
again have I plead with my heart for its 
consent ; my soul has summoned all its 
courage to obey ; but the voice of doom 
has startled my very being with its sol- 
emn warning never to become his wife. 
I feel an intuitive consciousness that he 


12 

is a dangerous man.” 

“He is eminently worthy of }ou, my 
daughter. ’ ’ 

“Doubtless he is worthy of a poor girl 
who cannot obey the best father a child 
ever had in this world. A hundred times 
you have begged me to encourage his 
suit. A hundred times have I grieved 
you, speaking the honest denial of my 
honest heart. xVnd my refusal has hung 
like an unnatural shadow over my young- 
life. It was not like me to disregard the 
slightest wish of yours. But I have bat- 
tled with myself till the respect I had for 
Felix Manning has turned to open dis- 
gust.” 

“ Why, then, do you continue to re- 
ceive his attentions? ” 

“ As a compromise between my feel- 
ings and yours. I am willing to endure 
him socially for your sake; beyond that 
he can expect nothing.” 

“Ruth, I beg you not to say that. Re- 
tract it, and promise me.” 

“ If I should become his wife, I should 
only })lace my body on the altar, and on 
that guillotine let Felix Manning drop 
the executioner’s axe.” 


13 

“ He has already asked my consent. 
This alone speaks volumes in his praise. 
At his next call, he will ask your hand 
and heart.” 

“O, Heaven, save me I It may be 
courteous, but he will find that it is not 
l)usiness. He will discover that I am a 
supreme court to reverse your decision. 
I am willing to sacrifice my life, but I will 
not sacrifice my honor. Day by day I 
have fought back the rising suspicion 
that he is a scoundrel. Hour after hour 
I have struggled for mastery over my re- 
bellious spirit. A thousand times I have 
tried to love him for your sake. A thou- 
sand times has he become more repulsive 
to me. Esteem gave way to cold respect ; 
then came absolute indifference, and now 
open hatred.” 

The father sprang to the floor, paced 
rapidly back and forth in the room, and 
l)urst forth in anger: 

“ Kuth, what is this I hear? ” 

“ O, Papa, be merciful; it is the bitter 
truth, which I should have preferred to 
keep untold, ])ut which I am now forced 
to speak. The man you want me to mar- 
ry is a loathesome leper in my sight. His 


14 

veiy })resence is contaiiiinatiiig. I have 
endured him for your sake, but I despise 
him. Your coercion has deepened that 
loathing until the sight of liini is despica- 
ble.” 

“Ruth, listen, and take warning — I 
will disinherit you.” 

“Father, this does not seem like you.” 

“ Nor you,” he said angrily. 

“ I promise that if he proves to be a 
perfect gentleman, I will try — You do not 
want me to marry a villain.'’ 

“ I shall resent this insult in his ab- 
sence, and declare your insinuations to ])e 
base and false. You must marry him.’' 

“I tell you that man’s face is a mask 
concealing a nature you have not fath- 
omed.” 

“ Eyes that hate will see the ugly, 
ghastly skeleton right through the living 
hesh. ■ 

“ And eyes that love will re-clothe that 
skeleton in the habiliments of beauty and 
of truth. His cold and greedy gaze has 
chilled the current of my life. In the 
frigid depths of his eyes I have almost 
seen the murdered victims of his cunning.” 

“Ruth, you are crazy.” 


15 

“Partially so, perhaps, already; com- 
pletely so when I become his wife. Home 
is the most sacred institution which God 
has ever permitted to exist on earth; but 
holy love must ligdit its altars, and fill its 
chalices, and burn within its censers. I 
dare not profane it with the mockery of 
wifehood.” 

“Why, every])ody likes him but you.” 

“Yes, he has won your heart, but he 
has seared mine over as with a hot iron. 
My body may be led to the altar, but love 
will never go. ' 

“ I will parley with you no longer. 
Felix Manning, or — disinherited.” 

“I renounce him and all your money, 
and accept your repudiation as a gracious 
boon to my soul. Rather than become 
his wife, I will wed the ragged and cadav- 
erous form of Penury.” 

“ You will become the wife of a title-, 
with a thing called a man hanging to it.” 

“To whom do you refer?” 

“To that foppish rake of a Major, 
Eugene Hendrix. His title and his pov- 
erty constitute the aggregate of his pos- 
sessions. He will give you title and pover- 
ty, and add their concomitant — misery. 


16 

Woe be unto you, Mrs. Major!” 

“ You were never more mistaken. My 
husband shall have the grandest title that 
ever laureled the human brow.” 

‘ ‘ Ah I Somewhat higher than I had an- 
ticipated.” 

“No doubt; but he will give me a 
higher title than Felix Manning could be- 
stow. If I should marry Mm, I would be- 
come his untitled slave.” 

“ I have a sort of weird curiosity to 
know the rank of the distinguished individ- 
ual who bears the loftiest title on earth.” 

“ It is a rare title.” 

“What is he?” 

“ A man!” 

“ Indeed! And what title, pray, could 
he bestow on you?” 

“ The same which God has given me, 
glorious and free; the untitled, but 
queenly name of — woman!” 

The irate father could endure this no 
longer, and might have done desperate 
things, but for a footfall on the piazza 
leading into the hall. He discreetly with- 
drew, and Ruth, her heart in a butter, 
endeavored to calm herself for the re- 
ception of some visitor. 


IL 


Mr. ^Montaye took his exit through the 
hall, intending to pass to his own room 
unnoticed by the new-comer. But unfor- 
tunately he encountered the individual 
whom he recognized as the old ser- 
vant of Major Hendrix. The negro was 
holding out a note to Mr. Montaye who 
refused to receive it, saying: 

“ Take it on the inside. I guess it’s 
from the Major,” and passed on to his 
apartments. 

The negro had never seen Miss Ruth, 
though he had often heard his master 
si)eak of her, and in such a way as to pos- 
itively enlist the affections of the negro 
for the girl, and also to create an un- 
(pienchable desire on the slaA ^’s part for 


18 

a match between her and “Marse Gene.” 
Having been bidden to enter by the “man 
of the house,” he did not wait further in- 
structions, but stepped cautiously into 
the room just vacated by Mr. Montaye, 
where he beheld Miss Ruth standing in 
cold pride mingled with grief. He paus- 
ed to survey her, for she had not discov- 
ered that any one had entered, and 
whispered to himself: 

“DeLawd! Haint she putty I I does 
woosh Marse Gene could git her fer er 
wife.” 

She turned upon him : 

“ Who are you? ” 

“ Ize Marse Gene’s body servant.” He 
laid his bee-gum hat on the floor and pro- 
ceeded. “ Ize de onliest nigger whut de 
ole Marster keep w’en he sol’ de fo’ 
hun’rd.” 

“The four hundred what? ” 

“ De f o’ hun’rd niggers whut de ole 
Marster useter own. He sol’ ’em all, cep ii 
me. Ize des alius sorter one uv de fambly 
— sorter one uv de w’ite fambly, ye know. 
Ize de p-a-r-ler nigger. I raise Marse 
Gene, est ez easy. Tell ye, young Mistis, 
dat de bes* man er nigger ebber raise. He 


19 

_ think er powerful sight iiv ye, too, young 
Mistis/' 

“ Is that so, uncle? How do you 
know?’’ 

“ Well, I knows, est ez easy. But see 
hyuh, young Mistis, doan you call me un- 
cle — you haint no kin ter me.” 

“ Happily that is so. What is your 
name? You didn’t tell me.” 

“ Ye didn’ ax me. My name Hamp. 
De full name am Hampton, er mo' zackly- 
lak, Hampton AYade — ’stinguished name, 
H a m pton AY a de . ’ ’ And he strutted across 
the room and back with all the suavity of 
a lord. “ YMu ’member de hamper bas- 
ket?” 

“ Imphm.” 

“ AAYll, Ize de same ole nigger.” 

“ AA^ell, Hampton, what did you come 
for? ” 

“ De Moses ’n’ de angels! YMung 
Alistis, you do so putty dat I haint got no 
min’ ’tall whar ye is.” And he makes a 
vigorous and demonstrative search among 
his pockets for the note. “I done fergit 
de note. Hyuh ’tis, young Mistis; bless 
de chile.” He hands it to her and pats 
her tenderly on the head. “Hits f ’ in 


20 

Marse Gene to ‘n’ hits got sunip’n 
lov’ii’ in it, kase he done got 'is heart sot 
on ye fer life. He er nionstus mighty 
good man, .young Mistis.” 

She moves across to a table, and uncle 
Ham])ton stands bewildered at her grace 
and beauty. 

“ Clar to greshus ef dat haint er angel, 
sho ! I does woosh Marse Gene git ’er fei‘ 
er wife. ’ 

As she turns round, he repeats the 
burden of his heart : “ He think a drea'fu’ 
sight uv ye, young iMistis.’’ 

“ You almost do your master’s court- 
ing for him, Hampton.’’ 

“ Yes’m, he say dat I his Miles Stan'ish, 
sometimes.’’ 

This provoked a hearty laugh from 
Kuth, and showed that old Hanip was 
going to be a rather interesting negro. 

‘‘ Well, I hope it won’t result as it did 
with the real Miles Standish. I see you 
have read literature some.” 

“ O, yes’m ; 1 reads des scads uv books. 
Taught Marse Gene. He de mos’ ’stem- 
peraneous reader ebberlook inside deleds 
uv er book. He lak ye, too, young 
Mistis.” 


21 

Your master must be very confiding; 
does he tell you all his secrets? ” 

“ W'y co’se he do. We des same lak 
hr udders, only I des same lak he paw, ’n’ 
he des same lak my own dear chile. O 
yes, honey; he gimme de inside track uv 
ebber thing, he do. He hab no secrets 
he don't tell me quick. Ef he wuz er 
rnakin' love ter ye, young Mistis, ’n’ you 
wuz er talkin’ sof ’ 'n’ sweet back ter ’iin, 
he’d des put 'is trus’ in me, ’n’ tell me 
ebber wud uv it — yes’m, ebber wud uvit.” 

“ AYell, Hampton, I don’t like for peo- 
ple to know my little secrets ; and I shall 
be careful what I say to him. I don’t 
want him to tell anybody, not even you.” 

Hamp was in a dilemma, but showed 
his acuteness in getting out of it. 

“AYho? Me? — AA^ell, — dat is — co’se 
he wouldn’ tell me des zachly whut ye’d 
say; but den, ef — ef — ef ye’d tell ’im ye 
spize ’im, den he’d tell me des zackly 
whut ye’d say.” 

“Well, Hamp, I do like Mr. Hendrix 
very much.” 

This was too much for the old negro. 
He was not expecting a conquest so soon, 
and it filled him so full that he began 


22 

dancing as though he were at a corn 
shucking, muttering to himself: 

“ She say she lak ’iin; I tell dm, I tell 
’im — est ez easy!’’ 

“ Why, Hamp, whafs the matter? ” 

Recovering himself, he was again call- 
ed upon for that peculiar knack of evad- 
ing a leading question which is so charac- 
teristic of the colored people. Seizing 
his knee in both hands, and turning his 
smiling visage into grimaces of pain, he 
said : 

“ O, Missie, I has de rumatiz.” 

“Well, you seem rather jubilant over 
it.” 

“Lemme tell ye sump’n, honey; laffin’ 
kills pain.” 

And then he loosened up his joints, 
and gave some extra figures which Miss 
Ruth had never seen before. She suffer-’ 
ed him to entertain her in this manner, 
for she was entertained. Every Southern- 
er delights to see a genuine ante-bellum 
negro “ cut the pigeon wing.” Somehow 
there's music and dancing both in it. 

But she was still more interested in 
the master than in the slave ; and she inter- 
rupted the gymnastics with another query. 


28 

“Your master tells you all his business, 
too?” 

“ O yes’m ; I knows all ’bout his affahs. 
Hope ’im ten’ ter ’em ebber sence he own 
de big ribber plantation.’’ 

“ Where did he get that property, 
I lamp?” 

“ De ole Marster, he will it ter ’im des 
’fo’ he died. IMarse Gene’s good ole 
mammy, she tuck de ole Marster’s def 
so hard, dat fer long time she haint eat 
no more n er snow bird. She des pine 
erway ’n’ died. > Den Marse Gene, he git 
so lonesome atter he paw ’n’ maw bofe 
dead, dat he say he des natcherly caint 
Stan’ it no longer, n’ he sol’ out de whole 
shebang, ’n' lef’ de ole plantation fer- 
ebber.” 

“ Did he get the mone} for the planta- 
tion and negroes?” 

“ O yes'ni; he got dezehere yaller fel- 
lers whut mek yer mouf water.” 

“ How much did he get, Ilamp?” 

“ O, Missie, de Lawd knows hit wuz 
mo' dan any nigger in dis work could 
count.” 

“ Then he is rich?” 

“ Now Missie, dat er hard question — he 


24 

rich, ’n’ den 'e haint rich.” 

“ Of course he’s rich if ,he got all that 
money.’' 

“ Well, Missie, he sho got er whole 
wheelbar’ full uv de pyore gol’. Aim os’ 
•temp’ er nigger ter run off ter de swamps 
wid it.” 

“ Negroes don’t steal, Hamp? ” 

“O Lawdy, yes'm. Den deys some 
w'ite trash whut dress up in dey hnery, 
’n’ strut ’roun’ lak er spring gobbler, 
whut steal f 'm dey betters.” 

Here Hamp dropped his head in re- 
membrance of the fact that there was a 
great secret which Major Hendrix had 
forbidden him to tell until his authority 
was granted to do so, and Ilamp saw tliat 
he was bordering on its disclosure. 

• “ What's the matter Hamp? ” 

“ Dar's de secret uv de tale, young 
Mistis. Marse Gene tole me not ter tell 
it yit erwhile. Ye do so putty dat 1 
iuighty nigh done tole ye de whole con- 
traption.” 

“ Tell me this, Hamp ; has your mas- 
ter lost that money?” 

“ Missie, ye wouldn' lak de man den.” 

“ O yes I would. Money's ni(‘e, but 


25 

he's nicer, and I would never tell him if 
you don’t want me to.” 

“Well, Missie, I darter greshus, ye 
win de angels. No won'er Marse Gene 
lak ye so. He couldn’ ’fuse ter tell ye, 
ef he wus hyuh, ’n’ you wuz er talkin’ so 
putty.” 

“Well, I must know more about the 
man who, you say, likes me so well. I 
might like him better then.” 

“Iz ye sho ye would, whutebber I tells 
ye?” 

“I think so.” ^ 

“ Does ye des clar ter greshus ye will?” 

“ O yes ; I hope so. Tell me all about 
him. Tin sure I like him, and what is 
more, I like you, too, Hamp.” 

This statement was like the balm of 
Gilead to Hamp’s troubled spirit. He 
was proud to know that she liked his 
master, but he was supremely happy to 
ascertain that she was pleased with him. 
Already, visions of “ Marse Gene’s” new 
home, with “Miss Roof’’ as his “Missus,’’ 
hashed through his fancy. He drew up 
closer to her, shrugged his shoulders in 
joy, and assured her of his equal attach- 
ment to her. 


26 

“ Lemme tell ye sump’n, honey; dishere 
nigger inek you ’n’ Marse Gene er inon- 
stus good servant/' 

“ If you mean that your master is to 
become my husband, I must know some- 
thing more about him. He may have 
gambled that money away.” 

‘‘ O Lawdy, no, Missie ; he know nullin’ 
’bout gamblin’. Sump’n turrible happ’n 
how he los’ dat money. ’Fo’ de Lawd ef 
I haint done tole ye, est ez easy ! Gimme 
de note, ’n’ lemme cl’ar deze premises 
’fo’ I tells ye ebber thing in my min’.” 

She hands him the answer to his mas- 
ter’s note, and gives him a few parting 
words, feeling the necessity of warning 
him against telling what she has said, but 
placing little confidence in his fidelity in 
such things. 

“Well, Hamp, you are very good and 
clever. I won’t tell what you said, and 
you won’t tell what I said — that’s a bar- 
gain, now.” 

“Yes’pi, yes’m, dat’s er bonny lido 
trade. Good night, putty Missus.” 

“ Good night, Hampton.’’ 

Hamp believed that a little deception 
was innocent if used in a good cause, and 


27 

he was under the decided conviction that 
the most proper thing in this world would 
be the marriage of his master to Miss 
Ruth. He had agreed that he would not 
tell what the beautiful girl had told him, 
but there was a mental reservation that 
he would tell it just as soon as possible, 
for Hamp was ready to employ any means 
that would facilitate matters. He be- 
lieved that his master should know the 
exact status of affairs at the Montaye 
mansion, and he was going to tell if he 
ever could see “ Marse Gene ” again. As 
he reached the door, he paused, glanced 
back at her, and said to himself: 

“ Dat ooman shine lak de queen uv 
Sheeby !” 


III. 


For a few minutes, Ruth was left to 
her own reflections, hoping the best, fear- 
ing the worst. Old Hamp did not leave 
“de premises,” as he pretended he would, 
but stood at the key-hole listening to the 
audible meditations of this wonderful 
woman. 

“ I wonder what the negro's story can 
mean. Evidently something evil. Papa 
has wronged Major Hendrix in presum- 
ing that, because he is a stranger in the 
city, he is therefore an unsafe man. His 
poverty is no crime. Better a pure- 
hearted Lazarus than a wicked Dives. 
Major Hendrix’s honest, open countenance 
and manly bearing are the result of a 


29 

noble nature. The alphabet of the soul 
is found in the lines of the face. The 
whole language of life is written in the 
countenance. Artificial smiles are but 
the yellow flag-signals of danger. The 
concentric wrinkles in Felix Manning’s 
face are the hieroglyphics of a miserly 
spirit. He would be as stingy with his 
alfections as with his gold. Love is the 
essential condition of a woman’s life. 
She is dwarfed if she cannot love ; she is 
starved if she cannot be lov^ed. But he 
who loves her must be every inch a man.” 

Again old Hamp was full to overflow- 
ing, and if he could only have an excuse 
to get back in there, he would certainly 
tell her “ebber thing he had in his min’.” 
To let her know that he had been there 
at that key-hole actually listening to her 
words, would cripple his chances of suc- 
cess by lowering her estimate upon his 
integrity. But, foul or fair, he was going 
back. He had a load on his mind that 
must off, and in he went, manufac- 
turing an excuse as he entered. Pulling 
his coat collar up around his ears, and 
his old hat down over his shoulders, he 
said : 


30 


“ Young Mistis, ye mus’ ’scuse de re- 
’pearance uv de ole nigger; hits er rainin’ 
on de outside.” 

“Is that so, Hampton? Is that light- 
ning I see out there? ” 

“ Yes’in; hits er lightnin’ lak thunder 
out dar.” 

“ Did you hear what I said while you 
were standing out there? ” 

“Who? Me?” he said, to give him- 
self time to evade an unexpected query. 

“Yes, you.” 

“ Did I hyuh all ye said, did ye say?” 
again endeavoring to dodge the real issue. 

“ Did you hear me talking to myself?” 

“Well, n-no’m — dat is — ^yes’m, I hyud 
ye. Now, co’se, I warnt ter say eaves- 
drappin’, zackly, but ye des natcherly 
caint stop yer years, w’en deys sump’n 
gwine on whut ye’d gib a mule ter hyuh.” 

“ Did >ou like it, Hampton? ” 

“ Well, honey, hit des do my soul so 
much good dat I des boun’ fer ter come 
back ’n’ tell ye sump’n ; hit aint er rainin’ 
out dar!” 

And here he laughed in great triumph. 

“Tell me what, Hampton?” 

“ Missie, ye know dat banker whut 


31 

you’ze been er talkin’ ’bout, Mr. Man- 
nin’? ” 

“ Yes, of course; why? ” 

“Ye des hoi’ on, now, ‘n’ lemine tell ye 
sump'll. Ye know Marse Gene?*’ 

“ Certainly I do; why do you ask?” 

“ Now, des lis'n at ’er ergin. Er ooman 
nebber kin wait fer er man ter tell ’er 
Huffin’. Ye know dat Harry Arnold, des 
er floatin’ roun’ hyuh w'arin’ sich good 
do es — de Lawd only knows whar he gits 
’em — you know him?” 

“ Iinphin. ” 

“Well, ef ye des clar ter greshus ye 
nebber tell it, I put ye in posseshun uv 
some valu’ble infermation.” 

“ Well, I won’t tell; go on.” 

“ Doan know, Missie; powerful hard 
fer er ooman ter keep er secret; but Ize 
gwineter tell ye ef ye blab it ’fo’ day.” 

“ O well, go on,” responded Miss Ruth 
somewhat impatiently. This pleased 
Hamp more than all her actions and 
words combined, because he felt that he 
had now excited her to a positive interest 
in his narrative, and flattered himself 
that the narrator was considered an im- 
portant factor in the events that were 


32 

now transpiring, and that he would be in 
the still more romantic exploits of the fu- 
ture. Whenever he became really happy, 
it was his nature to dance. And dance he 
would, regardless of the proprieties of 
time, place or circumstance. The thought 
of having made her anxious to proceed was 
a very felicitous one, and one on which 
he could and did dance. At the conclu- 
sion of his gyrations, he said: 

“Now, looky hyuh, honey, doan you 
git so impatient; de fidgets haint gwineter 
hu't ye. Dem free men I tole ye ’bout, 
ye know? ” 

“ Imphm.” 

“ Dey done form er solemn ’greement 
wid deysevs. Deys all free des er dyin’ 
’bout ye.” 

“Now, Hamp, you are just making 
that story to entertain me.” 

“Des zackly lak er ooman; b’lieb’n’ it 
all de time, ’n’ ’tendin' lak she doan b’lieb 
it des fer ter git me ter go on. Yes’m, 
deys all free des er dyin’ ’bout ye, ’n' deys 
all free gwineter hab ye ef dey kin. Dey 
mek dishere ’greement wid deysevs, dat 
dey gwineter come fer ter see ye, ’n’ ax 
ye fer yer heart an’ han’, ’n' den leab 


33 

it ter you ter take whichebber one is de 
mos’ suitables’ ter yer own tas’, ’n’ deys 
all gwineter ‘bide by yer tercision. Now, 
co’se I haint got no speshul intrus in dis 
here 'casion, but Ize hyuh ter tell ye dat 
Marse Gene am de flower uv de whole kit 
’n’ bilin’, ’n’ dat he lub ye so good dat he 
almos’ say ’is pra'rs ter ye. Dats so, 
young Mistis.” 

“Where is your master to-night, 
Hampton?” 

“ Down ter de Gayoso Hotel. Him V 
Mr. Cockrell* down dar talkin’ now.” 

‘ ‘ Did you know that he was in a hurry 
about an answer to his note? You better 
go now, Hampton, and you and I can 
have our talk some other time.” 

“ Yes’m, yes‘m, Ize gone lak de tele- 
graph. But see hyuh, young Mistis, 
haint you gwineter be Marse Gene’s 
guardian angel? He gwine off ter de 
Wah, ’n’ he gwineter come back fahly 
kivered wid honors ’n’ shinin’ wid glory.” 

In the mean time Major Hendrix had 
become restless over the darkey’s tardi- 
ness, and had made his way to the Mon- 
taye mansion in search of both Hamp 


*Mr. Cockrell was the owner of the hotel at the time. 


u 

and Miss Ruth. A ring at the hall door, 
and Major Hendrix was ushered into the 
room, glad to hnd Miss Ruth, but with 
an itching palm to thrash old Hanip. 

“ Hanip, you rascal! Why didn’t you 
hurry back as I told you? Didn’t I tell 
you this was important?” 

“ ’Deed >ou did, Marse Gene, but de 
young Mistis hyuh sich good company dat 
I couldn’ git erway.” 

This threw a small portion of the 
blame on Miss Ruth, and Hamp felt se- 
cure. 

“ Major Hendrix,” interrupted Ruth, 
“ I must take the entire responsibility of 
Hamp’s truancy upon myself. I encour- 
aged his stay by conversing with him on 
various subjects. I hope you will forgive 
him and me.” 

“ That is all right, MissMontaye; your 
explanation is more than satisfactory.” 

Giving Hamp some orders in detail, he 
dismissed him from the house. But 
Hamp had foreseen the approaching in- 
terview between Miss Ruth and his mas- 
ter, and it was hard for him to go. Slow- 
ly he moved from the room, and then, 
unable to depart without a tinal injunc- 


35 

tion, turned to his master, s^aope 1 him 
on the shoulder, and said confidentially: 

“ W’en de ooman in de notion, den de 
time fer de man ter ack!” and stepped 
forth into the night. 


IV. 


Major Hendrix had received his ap- 
pointment and commission, and was soon 
to report for duty on the field. His new 
uniform gave him a decided military ap- 
pearance, adding also to his personal 
charms. His time was precious, his hopes 
uncertain, his fortune gone. Without 
preliminaries he began to press the im- 
portance of his message to Ruth. 

“ Miss Ruth, has not this garrulous 
negro divulged my secrets to you? ” 

Ruth hesitated to inform on the negro, 
as well as on herself, but gave him a sig- 
nificant smile which he readily under- 
stood. 

“ I thought so,” continued the Major; 
“and thus you anticipate me. You have 
declined the three men, Mr. Arnold, Mr. 


37 

Manning and myself, on the ground that 
you did not wish to marry at all. We 
have suspected that there is a secret be- 
hind this strange conduct of yours, and, 
through an accidental remark made by 
your father, I have surmised that he 
wishes you to marry Mr. Manning against 
your will, and that, through respect to 
his wishes, you have declined all suitors, 
perchance your own choice among them. 
I shall not presume to think that I am 
that choice, but I am here to listen to 
your final decision concerning me. Mr. 
Manning has followed the old custom of 
asking the father’s consent before secur- 
ing that of his lady love. He feels quite 
sanguine of success, and, in a boastful 
manner, has proposed that all three men 
make a final appeal to you, solemnly 
agreeing to abide by your decision. 
Strange as this procedure may have been, 
1 entered the compact. Casting lots, it 
fell to me to make the first appeal. They 
will come afterwards. I do not wish you 
to feel embarrassed, but to speak freely. 
If your heart gives its affection to either 
of these other men, T shall withdraw at 
your bidding.” 


38 


It sounded very much like business to 
Ruth, all the tenderness of former inter- 
views having disappeared. His face was 
sterner than usual, his voice strong and 
positiv^e, his bearing reserved, and his ^ 
whole deportment indicative of grave 
earnestness. 

“Major Hendrix, I am not altogether 
responsible for my seemingly eccentric 
behavior toward you in this matter. 
Whatever the cause may have been, let 
it be unfolded in the future. It does not 
become me to speak of it now.” 

“ I censure no one. There is no blame 
to fall upon anybody. I should not have 
been bold enough to confront you with 
this same subject, but for the fact that I 
believe there are intuitions that unerring- 
ly speak when tongues are silent, or even 
when words deny the truth of things. I 
have thought that there are happy affini- 
ties between us, though my mind has had 
less reason than my heart to think so. 
Give me my answer.” 

“The wisdom of the heart is greater 
than that of the intellect. You have 
properly inter})reted the mystery of my 
refusal.” 


39 

“ Shall I feel encouraged to hope that 
you will rescind your previous decision 
concerning me?” 

Before Ruth could reply, Mr. Mon- 
taye stood squarely before them, and said 
gruffly: 

“ No! The supreme court affirms.” 

It was a scene in which all parties were 
equally chagrinned. Mr. Montaye held 
his eyes upon the Major in fierce defiance, 
though he trembled perceptibly. Ritth 
was too much mortified to speak, but 
watched the two claimants with an inter- 
est that carried with it her life. She knew 
her father was now desperate, and that 
the slightest jar further, would precipi- 
tate a catastrophe. Happily the Major 
was equal to the emergency. 

“I beg pardon, Mr. Montaye; I do 
not wish to make my presence offensive, 
sir, and will immediately depart if your 
daughter will add her commands to 
yours.” 

Turning to Ruth, the father spoke in 
suppressed anger: 

“ My child, you have heard the law; it 
is the decree of the Medes and Persians.” 

Ruth knelt at her father’s feet, took 


40 

his hands and held them tenderly within 
her own, looked up into his face, and 
said : 

“ My heart is here.” 

Mr. Montaye was happy. A triumph 
is never so exquisite as in the presence of 
the vanquished. Such is human nature. 
He lifted Ruth to her feet, saying: 

“My gracious daughter, the rewards 
of the dutiful shall be yours.” 

But his joy was suddenly transfixed 
with grief when Ruth turned to the Major 
with the words : 

“My heart and life are here ! ” 

The two men passed from their re- 
spective positions of misery and happi- 
ness, of victory and defeat; but as they 
passed, they struck like flints, and the 
fire flew. Mr. Montaye reached for the 
old revolutionary sword hanging on the 
portrait, and the Major quickly drew his 
steel, ready for the worst. They stood 
like tigers, measuring the courage each of 
the other. Mr. Montaye shifted his an- 
ger upon Ruth , and said : 

“ You have taken your life into your 
own hands. Marry the infidel, and lift 
your prayers toward his voiceless Heaven 


41 

and his far-off God,” and tamed liis 
back sullenly upon them. 

Kuth raised her eyes to those of Eugene 
in sheer despair, then hung her head and 
wept. 

“ Ruth,” said Eugene tenderly, “the 
clouds will break some day. I shall en- 
deavor to be all you have esteemed me — ” 

She could restrain herself no longer. 
Throwing herself back proudly, and lift- 
ing her palm toward heaven, she looked 
him deep into the eyes, and finished his 
sentence after her own idea : 

‘ ‘ A royal man I ’ ’ 

jNIr. Montaye was furious. Whirling 
upon the Major, he undertook a sword- 
thrust, which was promptly met by the 
Major. Ruth dextrously seized the blades 
of both weapons in her hands, fell upon 
her knees, and plead piteously to both 
for both. It was ‘Greek meet Greek,’ 
but a Spartan maiden knelt between 
them. 


V. 

The next afternoon Harry Arnold sat 
in front of the Gayoso Hotel, gazing out 
upon the River, and meditating over a 
newly conceived scheme the execution of 
which would compel Ruth Montaye to be- 
come his wife. A sudden tap on the 
shoulder startled him from this dark day- 
dream, and brought him face to face 
once more with Felix Manning, who thus 
probed his wounded heart : 

“Well, Harry, old boy, weVe had a 
hard fate, but we must endure it like 
men. You loved the girl, and so did I, 
but Eugene has routed us in a fair fight, 
and his reward is the heart and hand of 
Ruth Montaye.” 

“How do you know? ” 


43 

“ Got it pretty straight — he told me 
so.” 

‘ ‘ The deuce he did ! ’ ’ 

The superabundance of spleen which 
characterized this exclamation drove Fe- 
lix somewhat from his position, but he 
soon rallied with a more pointed climax : 

“ They are to be married within sixty- 
days.’’ 

“ I thought he was going to join Lee’s 
staff, with the promise of early promo- 
tion by virtue of his graduation from 
West Point.” 

“ Love has conquered Ambition this 
time.” 

“ Felix, are you not my friend? ” 

“ Have I not conducted myself as one? 
Have I not managed your business hon- 
orably? ” 

“You have, indeed, and you are a 
lucky dog, Felix. You labored hard for 
me when we robbed those two Cumber- 
land Stages, and I rewarded you by plac- 
ing a Hundred Thousand Dollars in the 
banking business and making you its sole 
manager.” 

“ I feel profoundly grateful to you, 
Mr. Arnold.” 


44 


“ Three months ago 1 made the biggest 
haul of my life — got it without bloodshed, 
as you know — half a million cash. If I 
were not afraid of detectives, I would re- 
tire from this tough profession, build a 
p:datial home in this city, and win that 
girl beyond all doubt. Are you sure the 
people ))elieve you inherited all that 
money? ” 

“lam.” 

“ They do not know me as having any 
part or ownership in it? ” 

“ Not at all.” 

“Would it be safe for me to locate 
here?” 

This inquiry was as unpleasant to Fe- 
lix as it was unexpected. lie had not in 
any wise given up his own hopes of mar- 
rying Ruth. He believed he could disen- 
chant and dispossess Major Hendrix, but 
this wizard of the mountains — never. He 
believed that absence makes the heart 
grow fonder — fonder of the other fellow 
that stays at home; and to have Harry 
Arnold locate in Memphis where he could 
see her every day, would diminish his own 
number of visits and chances in a most 
painful geometric ratio. With this quasi 


45 


logical argiiinent he replied: 

Your pals would betray you if you 
should leave them in the mountains. Be- 
sides, the detective business, is to-day 
penetrating every nook and corner of the 
globe, and your only abiding hope of se- 
curity is to be found in the seclusion of 
your Alleghany cabin.” 

“Could you not assist me in the mat- 
ter of living under an alias? ” 

“I shall have nothing to do with it. 
My crimes with 3^11 are numbered.” 

“A coward at last I ” 

“ Perhaps so, but one in whom pru- 
dence is valor.” 

“ Once a magnificent buck, to outrun 
the hounds of the law; now a timid, 
frightened fawn, slinking into the copse 
at the rustle of dead leaves.” 

“I have read somewhere that ‘the 
deer that goes too often to the lick, will 
find the hunter at last.’ ” 

“Well, enough of that. Could yon 
use all my inoiiey to advantage? ” 

“ I can. I can lend it to the Confed- 
erate Government. Jeff Davis and his 
Cabinet were disa})pointed in securing aid 
from England and France, and these are 


46 

the only two countries that have acknowl- 
edged the independence of the Southern 
Confederacy.’’ 

“ Is it safe?” 

“ Perfectly, I think.” 

“ What security would I have?” 

“They would issue bonds for Five 
Hundred Thousand Dollars, and these 
would be backed up by the Confederate 
Government.” 

“ Very well; how can it be done? ” 

“It must be done secretly. But the 
Cabinet is easily accessible. I will make 
the negotiations complete.” 

“I shall be ready to close the deal 
when you furnish the written evidence 
that they desire it.” 

“ That is unnecessary. Go with me to 
the Capitol, convey your money thither, 
and I ‘will guarantee its acceptance.” 

“Very well; it shall be done. But I 
must return to the previous question. I 
ask you finally if you are jesting with me, 
or if you speak the truth.” 

“ I speak only what ^lajor Hendrix 
himself declares to be true. There is no 
disguising the fact, they are to be mar- 
ried within sixty days.” 


47 


“ Did he tell you that? ” 

“He did.” 

“ Rather free with an acknowledged 
rival.” 

“ ‘ Rival’ is a misnomer now. You re- 
member the agreement? ” 

“Felix Manning, I entered this war 
under the black flag. ‘Victory or exter- 
mination ’ shall be my battle-cry.” 

“But, sir, your honor is at stake.” 

“Love is mightier than honor.” 

“ Well, here’s something to soothe the 
pangs of despised love.” And Felix 
smiled proudly as he exhibited a flask of 
liquor. He shook the contents and tempt- 
ingly called attention to the bead as proof 
of the article’s ancient and honorable ped- 
igree. 

“ Come, Harry, here’s the unadulterat- 
ed merchandise of the spirit world. Drink 
a toast to their happiness.” 

“Yever! But I’ll give you another. 
Listen ! ” 

Harry took the bottle, his hand trem- 
bling with excitement, his eyes flashing 
with anger and revenge : 

“Here’s to the ruby wine that lulls 
my pain, and deadens my conscience, and 


48 

arms ii)e with nerves of steel to conquer 
them!” 

He drank with avidity, and sullenly 
passed the bottle back to its owner, who, 
before drinking, said : 

“ Here's to the blissful nuptials of 
Eugene Hendrix and Ruth Montaye! ” 

“ That's a libel on your feelings.” 

“ Not a bit of it. Join me in my con- 
gratulations.” 

“No, sir; I want that pleasure my- 
self. I cannot wish joy to him who has 
robbed me of every earthly hope of hap- 
piness, nor to her who has refused me 
her life and blighted mine.” 

‘‘ You are less liberal with your affec- 
tions than with your money. You give 
charitably to the poor and help suffering 
humanity with a lavish hand.” 

“ Yes, my philosophy is: ‘ Take from 
him him that hath, and give to him that 
hath not;’ and I shall practice that phi- 
losophy on Eugene Hendrix.” 

“ But her heart will not be coerced.” 

“No, but her fortunes shall.” 

“For once you have lost your head. 
Her trousseau has been ordered.” 

“Better far had she ordered her shroud. ” 


49 


“ What do you mean? ” 

“ I mean, sir, that if he wins, there 
will still be blood on the moon. I would 
face McClellan’s artillery to call her 
mine.” 

“ Better face it than despoil a true 
woman’s love.” 

“ I have struggled to forget it, but 
each new struggle sets my heart on fire, 
and fills my soul with diabolism. Ah, 
sir, ‘ Common men fare ill when kings 
are angry I ’ ” 

“ And common kings fare ill when 
queens have jilted them.” 

“You infuriate me. The flowers that 
bloom for them shall be but the deadly 
upas and the nightshade. Their compan- 
ions shall be but the ghosts of departed 
joys. And the music of their lives shall be 
discordant with shrieks of pain and moans 
of anguish.” 

“ O tut! Tut! A regular tempest in 
a teapot. Let me whisper into your ear 
a comforting old adage.” 

“ All philosophy is false that opposes 
love.” 

“Time heals all wounds.” 

“ But not a broken heart. I tell you 


50 

I will devise such mischief as will make ■ 
the Civil War in miniature of their 
home.” 

“ The thing is irrevocable. The die is 
cast.” 

“ It may he cast; it mai^ be 7’c-cast. I 
promenade with her in Court Square to- 
night. See to the Government bonds, 
Felix, and 7 will attend to the matrimo- 
nial bonds.” 

As h(‘ ros(' and walked away he mut- 
tered : 

“Though I am ruthless to-night, I 
shall net be Kuthless forever!” 


VI. 


Felix knew the man was now frenzied 
with the combined fury of love, hatred, 
jealousy and revenge; and he sat wonder- 
ing what awful consequences might fol- 
low. He had schemes of his own to op- 
erate, but he had also a Nestorian com- 
petitor. At this moment, while his plans 
were so enlarging in his mind as to almost 
burst from their hiding place, there ap- 
peared the very man of all the world 
whom he most desired to see. Major Hen- 
drix. As the two sat, Felix drew his 
chair closer, and with tremulous excite- 
ment, said: 

“ Eugene, would you kill a man?” 

“ You astound me; man is my brother. 
Heaven my judge.” 

Your ])rother sometimes robs you of 
your birthright.” 


52 


“Your insinuations are obscure.” 

“ I mean, sir, that, in your unsuspect- 
ing innocence, you are confronted by one 
of the most daring and bloodthirsty guer- 
rillas in all this Civil War.” 

“You!” exclaimed the Major, think- 
ing Felix himself the dangerous person- 
age spoken of. 

“You will need the best judgment of 
your life. You are king to the little 
queen, but the sword of Damon hangs 
over your head.” 

“ Is it a Damascus blade?” queried 
the Major, treating the information and 
the informer coolly. 

“ You smile to-night, but I tell you 
the day is coming when your eyes will 
freeze upon the scenes they behold.” 

“ A cold day in August, Felix,” he 
answered derisively. 

“Yourearswill.be saluted by words 
of thunder and lightning, fire and brim- 
stone.” 

“ Must be an eruption from the smoke- 
stack of Vulcan!” scornfully retorted 
the Major, indignant at the apparent 
braggadocio of the schemer. 

But his abruptness did not intimidate 


53 

the bnizen heart of Felix who parried 
back with boldness: 

“To be more pertinent, without being 
impertinent, I tell you there is this night 
a l)rood of ravens hatching that will 
prey like vultures on your happiness 
with Ruth Montaye.’^ 

The earnestness and vigor of this 
statement brought the Major to realize 
that it would l)e well for him to listen. 
Ilis assumed indifference now took a 
more sober aspect, and as he watched the 
speaker, he felt for the first time that he 
was looking into a murderous eye. 

“ If that is what you mean, out with 
it,” said the Major commandingly. 

“I am not your serv^ant, sir; you can 
not demand what you will. The knowl- 
edge of that scheme is locked in this lit- 
tle chest,” answered Felix, tapping his 
forehead. 

“And I hold the key,” spoke the Ma- 
jor, raising his index finger, and giving 
Felix a look which meant more than the 
power of arms. 

“ The secret is at your command in 
confidence,” Felix conceded. 

“ I will not betnvy you; proceed.” 


54 


“ But you must promise solemnly.’' 

“ I promise.” 

“ Swear it.” 

“ I swear.” 

“ Here is all that is safe for me to tell 
or necessary for you to know. Harry Ar- 
nold has broken his compact, and will 
pursue you and your betrothed like a 
bloodhound thirsty for your happiness.” 

“ Why he has only this day professed 
his love for me.” 

“ As the lion loves the hind.” 

, “ Then his conscience be his purgato- 
ry! ’’ 

“ If Conscience should knock at the 
door of his heart, it would strike fire from 
its flinty walls.” 

“ Heaven sometimes strikes down its 
own desolators.” 

“ Fow take your rest; he never does. 
Like the hare, he sleeps with his eyes 
open.” 

“What about his history? ” 

“ A born tighter, a long record of 
lighting, he will die fighting, and when 
dead will combat the devil and his guards. 
Thirteen wounds on his body tell some of 
the tales of his enchanted life. He has 


55 


about him the charm of Achilles.” 

“ But there is one fatal, vulnerable 
spot.’’ 

“ He believes I am his friend. I am 
your friend. With Ruth Montaye he prom- 
enades in Court Square to-night. He is 
desperate, and you will do well to watch 
him. Will you be there? ” 

“I shall keep my own counsels,” said 
the Major, the coolness of the remark 
ending the conversation. 

Felix passed into the hotel, and left 
the Major to his own reflections. 

“ The fawning hypocrite feigns friend- 
ship,” thought the Major. “ And yet the 
fiends of hell sometimes tell the truth. 
It is easier to fight a brave man than a 
coward. The knave s duplicity keeps but 
the mirage of a man before your eyes, 
while the real mountebank, with his 
practiced stiletto, is carving death in your 
back.” 

Felix had read mischief in the Major’s 
eye, and thinking to taunt him into exas- 
peration, he returned and said: 

Don't become murderous, now. Re- 
member: ‘ ^lan is your l)rother, Heaven 
your judge.’ ” 


VII. 


Major Hendrix determined to forestall 
his malefactor. Dismissing all other bus- 
iness, he went immediately to the Mon- 
taye mansion, hoping to inform Ruth of 
the prophesied evil, and to thwart the de- 
signer’s purpose. On his arrival, he was 
advised that Ruth had gone driving with 
a lady friend, and that she would not re- 
turn before nightfall. He then set out 
to tind Harry Arnold that he might ad- 
just matters at their proper headquarters, 
by warning if he could, by the most dead- 
ly execution if he must. He was soon ap- 
prised that Arnold was out of the city, 
which fact gave him temporai*y relief, 
but on reflection brought deeper alarm, 
for the absence might be a hoax, or it 
might be that Arnold himself was the 


57 

chaperon of the little outing part} , and 
that the whole arrangement might be on- 
ly a decoy to entrap the girl, and persuade 
or compel her to become his wife. He 
as not at all acquainted with the charac- 
ter of Arnold, knew nothing of his ante- 
cedents, and had formed no decided opin- 
ions concerning his villainy. The story of 
Felix, however, seemed slowly formulating 
into reality, and Fancy's fears were paint- 
ing grotesque figures and wrestling with 
coming calamities. Twilight found him 
again at the home of his betrothed. She 
had not yet returned. The father also 
was absent. Only the servants were there. 
He remained for two long hours waiting 
in vain for her coming. The deepening 
shadows of the night brought still deeper 
gloom upon his heart, and the words of 
Felix crystalized into awful truths. He 
remembered that they were to be in 
Court Square at some time during the 
evening. Approaching the center of the 
park, he discovered a man sitting on the 
edge of the fountain basin. But the figure 
quickly disappeared among the denser 
shades of the trees. He pursued. Again 
it evaded him. Everywhere he sought it, 


58 

it vanished like an apparition. Consol- 
ing himself that it was but the creation 
of a feverish imagination, he dropped in- 
to a rustic seat and thus soliloquized : 

“I wonder what keeps them. They 
are not at home, not at the opera. Felix 
said they would be here, but Felix is a 
villain as deep-dyed as the other. I fear 
that already the two scoundrels have gone 
so far with their united cunning that my 
loss is irretrievable.” 

But there was another soliloquy near 
by. Behind a tree, Felix had been watch- 
ing and meditating: 

“I would as soon kill Eugene as Har- 
ry. Both are in my way. Neither shall 
enjoy my heritage. They are desperate. 
One will kill the other, and I will act the 
coward for once, and, from behind this 
tree, will waylay the survivor.” 

The crack of a stick under his foot 
brought Eugene to an expectant, listen- 
ing posture. Then came flight, and a 
chase through the darkness. Clouds 
eclipsed the starlight, and the forms of 
both grew vague and indistinct as the 
shadows thickened about them. 

But the quest and flight continued, 


59 

each locating the other by the fleeing or 
pursuing footfall. On and on they went, 
the one never quite escaping, the other 
never quite capturing. At length, pur- 
suit became so close as to force the fugi- 
tive out of the enclosure and across the 
street where he darted up a well-known 
stairway. Here the Major thought it 
prudent not to charge upon the enemy in 
his own breastworks, but he took a posi- 
tion in an arcade and waited the re- 
appearance of the stranger. 


VIII. 


Felix did not, however, stop in the 
building, but passed out through a rear 
stairway, and was soon again in Court 
Square, waiting developments. By this 
time the moon was coming up, and strug- 
gling to dispel at least some of the dark- 
ness. For, though the clouds were heavy, 
it was now sufficiently light to clearly dis- 
tinguish forms at some distance, and, near 
by, to identify individuals. On the op- 
posite street from where the Major stood, 
the well known figures of Harry Arnold 
and Ruth Montaye came into view. Pres- 
ently Felix saw that they were coming up 
the foot-path toward the very seat he oc- 
cupied. Keeping in the shadows, he 
sought refuge behind a tree only a few 


CA 

feet away. Ruth had not returned home 
in the evening, but had remained with 
her lady friend, where Arnold had called 
for her. She had not been informed of 
any purpose to stroll about the park, but, 
as she understood it, was merely passing 
that way from her friend’s to her own 
home. Arnold, however, was to make 
this his opportunity. His manner to 
her had always been exemplary, and she 
had not suspected “what a Godly outside 
falsehood sometimes has.”’ Pausing gt 
the rustic seat, he said: 

“ Let us rest here for a while.” 

Innocence is not suspicious. She sat 
beside him with a sentinel’s “ all’s well” 
in her heart. 

“ Xow, Miss Ruth, I have not spent a 
pleasant evening with you so far,” he 
said, in a tone of profound gravity. 

“ I perceive you have been ill at ease. 
I have not meant to offend you.” 

“ You meant not to do so, perhaps, 
but your persistency in this matter blights 
every atom of my happiness.” 

“ You should value me less and your- 
self more.” 

“ Instead of keeping to himself the 


62 

substance of his interview with you, Ma- 
jor Hendrix disclosed the final result of 
it to Felix Manning, and we already know 
that we have been rejected. Felix has 
graciously resigned himself to his fate.” 

“Not much!” muttered Felix quietly, 
still holding his fort behind the tree 
where he could hear every word. 

“But I cannot forget it,” continued 
Arnold; “ I cannot dismiss it for an in- 
stant. You are pledged to Eugene Hen- 
drix.” 

“ And he is worthy,” was the signifi- 
cant response. 

“ He may be, and so am I if measured 
in terms of my devotion to you. Will 
you not hear me? ” 

“ Mr. Arnold, you insult the sanctity 
of my vow to Major Hendrix by insisting 
on this thing. I feel flattered by your re- 
peated declarations, but your request can 
never be granted.” 

“ Euth, do not deny me. Eugene Hen- 
drix would have you believe that he is a 
rich man. I am sure that he has nothing. 
Three months ago he was robbed of half 
a million in cash. Fearing that the War 
might free the slaves, he sold them for 


63 

money, as he did also a large plantation. 
This entire sum was stolen, and he is now 
as poor as the proverbial church mouse. 
The old negro, Hamp, is his only earthly 
possession. Within six months he will 
be absolutely penniless. You have al- 
ready rejected Mr. Manning, and I will 
now tell you that I own every dollar of 
the capital stock in that bank, and he has 
nothing Avhatever to do with it except to 
manage the business for me, and draw his 
monthly salary.” 

“ Where is your home? ” 

“ Marry me, and we will make it any- 
where. I have, besides this bank, an 
abundance of money, and if you Avill mar- 
ry me, you will be the richest woman 
south of The Mason- And-Dixon line.” 

“Not for money.” 

“ Ruth, do not scoff me in this Avay. 
Think of the happiness, the station in 
life, the palatial home, fine carriages, 
blooded horses, servants at your pleasure, 
floAAWS, music, diamonds, refinement, cul- 
ture, luxury — the aristocracy of the 
South shall be our circle. Think of 
these things and ansAver me.’’ 

“I do think of them often, and I 


64 

should enjoy them — with Major Hen- 
drix.” 

“ And not with me? ” 

“ I hope you will spare me the answer 
you require.” 

“ I cannot. I must insist. You are 
now disinherited. Think of the wealth 
and elegance your marriage to me would 
bring.” 

“ The power of money has its limita- 
tions; it cannot buy all you name.” 

“Pardon me, in this age money will 
buy anything.” 

“ It may buy horses and slaves, but it 
cannot purchase culture and refinement. 
One thing is sure: It cannot buy my 
heart.” 

“ Ruth, if you cannot love me, I shall 
be content with the merest respect.” 

“ Mr. Arnold, I must emphatically de- 
cline your request.” 

“Ruth, I must emphatically and for- 
ever call >ou mine.” 

“ Sir, you alarm me, and I insist that 
you conduct me to my home at once! ” 

“I will conduct you to our home if you 
will marry me to night.” 

The alarming trend of his speech was 


65 

becoming so intensified as to arouse her 
gravest fears. As she stood before him, 
the moon l)roke through a cleft in the 
clouds and revealed the dignified scorn of 
her features. 

“Positively I shall not hear another 
word. Take me home, or I shall go 
alone.” 

Desperation begets its kind. He now 
saw that unless he could overpower her, 
he must abandon his hopes. The timid, 
shrinking girl was no longer there. In 
her stead towered the majesty of invinci- 
ble Avomanhood. In a final frenzy of pas- 
sion, he seized her hands, forced her 
down into the seat, and, holding her 
there, said: 

“Ruth Moutaye, I love you madly 
enough to’ slay you to prevent your mar- 
riage with Eugene Hendrix, or to die to 
call you mine.” 

Felix, behind the tree, was a most 
interested spectator. Gritting his teeth, 
he growled out: 

“ Better die, then! ” 

Ruth struggled Avith her physical su- 
perior, and, finding herself unable to es- 
cape, she plead for her release Avith a pit- 


66 

eousiiess that would have touched a sav- 
age, but which fell in helpless accents on 
a deafened ear. 

“Unhand me, sir, or I shall call the 
police.” . 

“We shall leave Memphis to-night,” 
came the terrible reply. 

“You are no gentleman, sir.” 

“Consent to be my wife, and I will 
liberate you.” 

“I never will I And I warn you for 
the last time — ” 

But even this warning was unnecessa- 
ry. The Major had been moved from his 
watch by Arnold’s over-boisterou« tones, 
and now appeared on the scene. 

“Hold! You scoundrel!” And the 
Major’s sword was ready to do the work 
his heart inspired. But the co.ward con- 
tinued dodging behind Kuth, never let- 
ting loose her hands, keeping her between 
him and the Major. 

“ Put up your sword, and I will sur- 
render her,” Avas the humiliating conces- 
sion of the swaggerer. 

“ Release her, then, and go!” said the 
Major, pointing down the path he Avas to 
travel. 


67 

As Arnold slouched along the well- 
beaten track, the Major followed him 
with a fierce, revengeful eye. When he 
had gotten far enough away for safety, 
the jNIajor started with Ruth in the oppo- 
site direction. xVrnold, however, was 
watching his chance. Having discovered 
that they were going, he followed rapid- 
ly, pistol in hand, aiming to kill the Ma- 
jor, and thus forever end all rivalry. As 
he rushed past the tree behind which Fe- 
lix had been standing so long, a shot was 
heard, and Arnold fell to the ground. 
Major Hendrix and Ruth came hurrying 
back to the spot, and found him bleed- 
ing profusely from the right side of the 
skull. 

“ He’s a dead man,” said the Major, 
bending over him, and endeavoring to 
stay the wound with his handkerchief. 

“ O, he has suicided!” exclaimed Ruth, 
torturing herself that she was the cause. 

“ We must notify the police,” said the 
Major, still trying to ascertain some signs 
of life. 

“Eugene, lam very sick; you must 
hurry me home,” was the tremulous re- 
quest of the girl. 


68 


Realizing how great the nervous shock 
must be to her, he obeyed at once, start- 
ing hastily away. A moment more and 
Felix Manning stood over his victim with 
the full and satisfying assurance that he 
was dead. Gratified that no one could 
possibly have seen his deed, he felt se- 
cure. With the coolness and complai- 
sance of one who has done well, but with 
blood-color in his voice, he said : 

“Well, that’s one!^’ and shut the 
mystery in his heart. 


IX. 

When Ruth reached home that night 
she found a letter, of which the following 
is an exact reproduction : 

“ My Dear Daughter: 

I have two im- 
portant things to tell you: First, that 
you have my unqualified consent to mar- 
ry Major Hendrix, and Second, that I 
have gone to War. You repented of your 
rashness in refusing my request to be- 
come the wife of Felix Manning, and, al- 
though you had pledged your life to the 
Major, you voluntarily placed the execu- 
tion of your promise at my disposal. I 
have examined into the family record of 
Major Hendrix, and find him to be of 
honorable extraction. Be to him a faith- 


70 

ful and loving wife as you have been to 
me a faithful and loving child. My sum- 
mons to war came some days ago. For 
your sake, I tried to beg out of it, but in 
vain. Finding it imperative to go, I 
could not inform you of my departure, 
and I could not say good bye to jny pre- 
cious baby. So I have stolen away from 
you, but my heart I leave behind with 
you. Our Company will fall in this af- 
ternoon at four, and then move into such 
fields as we may be commanded. As 
your marriage is to take place very soon, 
I commit your life into the hands of him 
whose duty it shall be to defend and pre- 
serve it. 

Papa.” 

Ah, how one sorrow chases at the 
heels of another! And yet the avenue to 
her final happiness was now fully opened. 
Still, a night of hideous dreams and tor- 
turing nightmares was before her. Next 
morning Arnold, though alive, was con- 
sidered dying. Then came her severest 
ordeal. She and the Major were arrest- 
ed for the crime, and l)oth lodged in jail. 
Here they remained anxiously hoping to 
hear that Arnold had recovered, or that 


71 

the real murderer had been apprehended, 
or that the claim of attempted suicide 
might be accepted as a fact. One morn- 
ing, after a long period of excruciating 
expectancy, the news was brought to the 
jail that Arnold was dead. A bill was 
found against the prisoners, they had 
their trial after the loose legal methods 
of those terrible times, and the verdict 
was that they should hang. 



X. 


While in jail waiting execution, Ruth 
had written her father in detail of the 
whole a&ir, and urged him to come to 
her rescue. But the answer came from a 
comrade that he had been slain in battle. 
There was nothing left on earth for her 
hopes to cling to. The trial had cost her 
the larger part of her father’s fortune, 
all her influential friends were in the 
army, the sentence had been passed, her 
counsel could secure no new hearing, and 
destiny was sealed. 

One morning there came to her cell 
an old man, stooped and grey with years, 
who sought an interview with her. She 
had. heard him tell the jailer he would 
not be long at the cell, but that he must 


73 

speak with her privately. The strange 
request was granted, the jailer withdrew, 
and the aged gentleman accosted her: 

“ My dear girl, why are you here? ” 

“One Harry Arnold was killed in 
Court Square, and Major Hendrix, who 
is in another solitary cell of this prison, 
and myself were condemned to die for 
the crime.” 

“ What have you to do with it?” 

“ I was adjudged one of the principals 
in the affair. I was with Major Hendrix 
at the time the killing was done, but Mr. 
Arnold suicided because I had refused 
his offer of marriage.’’ 

“ How do you know? ” 

“AYhen we heard the shot, we ran to 
the place and found Mr. Arnold, as we 
thought, dead, with the weapon in his 
hand. As no one else was near, he must 
have suicided.” 

“ My dear girl, I know all about the 
killing of Harry Arnold, and there are 
five points that convict you: First, the 
two men quarrelled, and you and Arnold 
quarrelled. Second, there were no others 
present. Third, a kerchief belonging to 
Major Hendrix was found on the spot. 


74 

and bloody. Fourth, Felix Manning tes- 
tifies that he was just across the street at 
the time, and, seeing two persons leaving 
hurriedly, ran after them, discovering 
the couple to be yourself and Major Hen- 
drix. Fifth, the pistol with which you 
say Arnold suicided, was found to have 
every chamber loaded. The evidence is 
overwhelming.” 

“ \Ve ran to him and tried to stop his 
wounds with our handkerchiefs, but I be- 
came suddenly sick at sight of the 
dead man, and asked Major Hendrix to 
hurry me away. We have been convict- 
ed on the evidence you give, but we are 
innocent, sir.” 

“ M^ould you make me a solemn prom- 
ise, which I will name, if I will prove you 
both innocent? ” 

“O, sir, make me your grateful bene- 
ficiary.” 

“ Are you sure you would be my life- 
long friend? ” 

“ Sir, you torture me with agonizing 
expectation. I will be your willing ser- 
vant forever.” 

“ The promise is a very peculiar one, 
and may be very difficult for you to make 


75 


and perform.” 

“ You are old, sir, and I will take you 
into my home, and make you for all time 
to come a part of my family.” 

“ Are you sure? ” 

“ I will stake my life upon it. Your 
delay is excruciating. Tell me, can you 
release Major Hendrix and myself?” 

“I can.” 

“I was to be married to him, sir, and 
I pray only for an innocent husband.” 

“ The conditions upon which I can re- 
lease you both will forbid you to marry 
him.” 

“ Sir?” 

“I say the evidence which I can pro- 
cure to open the doors of liberty to you is 
of such a nature as to ostracise you from 
him forever.” 

“I do not understand you.” 

“ Will you sign an agreement solemn- 
ly swearing not to marry him if I will 
guarantee his freedom and yours?” 

“ Only to-morrow, sir, I would have 
become his wife.” 

“You don’t want to marry a dead 
man, do you?” 

“O, sir, you frighten me. If I could 


76 

tiot save him in any other way, I would 
take even that solemn oath.” 

“ Do you promise?” 

“ Y-e-s, sir, I do; give me the evi- 
dence.” 

“ You must promise something else.” 

“ W-e-11.” 

“If, by chance, Harry Arnold should 
be living, and if he should come and re- 
lease you by his personal appearance in 
court, would you not agree to marry 
him?” 

“ It cannot be that he is living.” 

“ Strange things have happened in this 
world.” 

“I could not marry him,, sir; he is a 
viper.” 

“ Then I cannot release you. IlaiTy 
Arnold is living and well. His accom- 
plices had charge of him during his ill- 
ness. The coroner was deceived, and the 
report of his death was a falsehood per- 
petrated upon the public. It was only a 
mock burial that occurred. He recover- 
ed from that wound, and, on the terms I 
mention, he is now willing to release you 
both.” 


“ Where is he? ” 


77 

“ I cannot now tell you ; but I am here 
to give you this one chance for your lives 
before the law is executed on you both.’^ 

The old man here took out a piece 
of paper, placed it against the wall, and 
hastily wrote the contract. Ruth now 
believed it was her only hope, but en- 
deavored to dissuade the projector from 
his demand. 

“ Sir, I Avill promise not to marry Ma- 
jor Hendrix.” 

“Nothing more?” was the cool reply. 

The painful silence which followed 
was finally broken by the old man who 
handed her the paper and said : 

“ Read that.” 

She began running over it to herself. 

“ Read it aloud,” he grufiiy ordered. 
She obeyed. 

“I, Ruth Montaye, now in jail in 
Memphis as one of the principals in the 
murder of Harry Arnold, do hereby sol- 
emnly agree, and before Heaven do swear, 
that I will marry Mr. Arnold if he is still 
living, and will demonstrate the fact b} 
his personal appearance in court.” 

The spoken words were terrible from 
his lips, but now that she was looking 


78 

upon them, and herself uttering them, it 
seemed worse than the final sentence of 
the court. Tennyson was right. “ Things 
seen are mightier than things heard.” 
Without flinching from his purpose the 
aged man heard her sobs. Givdng her a 
moment for recovery, he said in the cold- 
est business-like tones: 

“ Well, will you sign it? ” 

“ O, sir, I cannot. I will give you 
thousands to do this without my prom- 
ise.” 

“ The evidence is not for sale,” he an- 
swered icily. 

“Sir, you are an old man, and have 
doubtless loved and married a good and 
noble woman, and I ask you — ” 

“ I have but five minutes longer to re- 
main here,” he said, looking at his watch. 
“ You are now the mistress of your own 
destiny. Renounce Major Hendrix liv- 
ing, or with him die. Will you sign it?” 

“ Give me the pencil,” she said, and 
turned back into a dark corner of the 
cell. Kneeling, she prayed: 

“ Spirit of my sainted mother, be my 
witness that my heart is not in this 
pledge !” and in the darkness Avrote her 


79 

naine. She fell upon the floor, and wept 
as woman weeps but once and lives. The 
old man was getting impatient lest his 
time should expire without her signature. 
He broke in upon her grief rather storm- 
ily: 

“ Within sixty seconds, unless you 
sign and return that paper, I shall carry 
from this jail the only ray of light that 
can 

Fearing tones, words and speaker, she 
arose and slipped the paper through the 
bars. 

“ Are you sure you would not regret it 
if Harr} Arnold were here in person?” 
said the octogenarian. 

“ I have signed it,” came the scornful 
response. 

“The proxy becomes the original. 
Harry Arnold stands before you, and 
claims the immediate execution of your 
promise.” 

As he threw off his disguise and stood 
fully revealed, her soul was almost driven 
from its moorings. In her extremity she 
again fell prostrate upon the floor and 
prayed : 

“ O Father of defenseless womanhood, 


80 

preserve me from the gyves of this vul- 
ture.” 

Then the re-action came, and she con- 
fronted him with that supernatural ener- 
gy which God, in times of peril, bestows 
upon her sex. 

“ Go to your carrion, and gloat over 
murdered virtue. I will not pollute wife- 
hood by giving it your name.” 

He undertook to interrupt her, but 
she was invincible. 

“ I denounce your villainy and your 
marriage contract. With steadier tread 
and whiter conscience would I ascend the 
scaffold.” 

Again an unavailing effort to restrain 
her. 

“ Your scheme was well conceived, 
but botched in execution. The keeper of 
this prison has been a spectator to this 
infamous treachery. He himself will 
give your own testimony in the courts of 
Memphis. The spider is cunning, but, 
for once, he is cabled in his own web. 
Like a cur at the bidding of his mistress, 
go!” 


XL 

Harry Arnold escaped from the place 
without detection, further than recogni- 
tion by the jailer. Ruth’s assertion came 
true in the courts. They were liberated, 
soon married, and, withal, were very hap- 
py in their hew suburban home. 

But another day of trial was coming 
to Ruth. Ah, friend, women are the 
burden-bearers of this world. The time 
had been set for the Major’s departure to 
War. And Ruth met that morning like 
a soldier’s wife. Many an argument of 
its necessity, many a promise of the re- 
wards of martial courage, many loyal re- 
solves, many tears and many praters had 
given her good training for that well-nigh 
mortal hour. He went, and, for all his 


82 

glowing pictures of the future, she saw 
only the shadows of an impenetrable for- 
est before her. 

Months and months went by with only 
an occasional letter from the Major, 
though he wrote as often as possible. 
One bright, crisp December morning, 
while the angels sang their Christmas 
matins in the sky, a baby smiled upon 
her bosom. From some concurrence of 
circumstances, the husband could get no 
leave of absence from his superior for 
nearly two years. She lived Methuselah’s 
lifetime in her waiting hours. But the 
prolonged separation must have an end, 
and so it had. And when he came, safe 
and sound, “their spirits rushed together 
at the touching of the lips.” To both it 
was an occasion of a whole existence, an 
hour of supremest joy. Man has not in- 
vented language to word-paint bliss like 
theirs. Although the child was eighteen 
months of age, the mother had never 
given it a name, but had reserved that 
service for her husband. He took the 
infant to his heart, and, as the daring ex- 
ploits of J. E. B. Stuart passed before 
his memory, he formed a word from that 


83 

cavalry chieftain’s initials, and christened 
the baby “ Jeb.” 

The days swept by like glimpses of 
light. And Ruth set her purpose well 
that her husband should never 'again en- 
ter military service. In a thousand ways 
did she strive to make home so enchant- 
ing, and her life so bewitching, as to ab- 
sorb his sense of patriotism and his mili- 
tary ambition. And no baby was ever 
more tastily or daintily attired to please a 
father than this same little Jeb. And 
what a contrast between this Eden and 
the soldier’s tent. His transports were 
those of a soul passing through the gates 
of wickedness into Paradise. One night 
when Ruth had tucked the child away in 
his cot, the Major observed her lingering 
over the dear one unusually long, and, 
listening, he heard her sighs and sobs 
break through a gentle murmur as of 
prayer. He understood as though each 
word were whispered in his ear. He 
rose and passed into the night, and left 
the mother with her child and God. He 
could not tell her that to-morrow he 
must go. When he returned, her calm 
face slept upon her pillow, one arm rest- 


84 

ing on the baby’s cot. As he looked up- 
on these two angels of his home, a silent 
but a harder battle in his heart began 
than he had seen in all the vehemence of 
war. P’ar in the night he was awakened 
by the sound of sobs again. And there 
up through the darkness over baby’s crib 
ascended her poor, wailing, stifled cry 
that she could never live those gloomy 
days again; and then her pleading tones 
that God would move upon his heart to 
stay; that both her own and baby’s arms 
might lock around his neck and hold him 
there; and that her loving, grief-laden 
entreaties might outweigh a General’s 
command. Sleep and Rest fled before 
those holy words. Should he go? Could 
he go? 


XII. 


Next morning she heard him order old 
Hamp to bring out his favorite horse. 
The animal had not been used by any one 
since his arriv^al home. She knew the 
time had come. Clinging to him as a 
vine to an oak which the storm is about 
to tear away from it, she said : 

“ Have I prayed and plead in vain, 
then?” 

“ My Love, if it were possible, this 
separation should be avoided.” 

But still she begged: 

“ Stay with me and our baby boy. Are 
we not dearer to you than the compan- 
ionship of rough soldiers? ” 

“ As pearls are prized above pebbles,” 
he said, and turned his face away. Then 


86 

with greater courage proceeded : 

“ But it takes rough men for battle; 
and we must win, or see our slaves taken 
from us and our homes demolished. So 
far, the South has scored her share of 
victories, and if Lee and Jackson re'main 
in the field, the Confederacy will 'become 
the cultured Greece of the New World.” 

“War quickens brutal instincts, and 
develops men into immoral monstrosi- 
ties,” she replied, appealing to his own 
selfculture. 

“ The South creates no traitors,” was 
the confident declaration of the com- 
mander. 

“The next news that comes may be 
the story of your death,” she said, hold- 
ing him closer still as if the grim monster 
were calling him from her embrace. 

“If so, it shall come from the front of 
battle — from the breastworks of the ene- 
my.” 

“ O, say not so; do you not fear 
death? ” 

“ I have met him with less perturba- 
tion than this moment imposes.” 

“ Then yield to this better feeling.’’ 

“ Why should a Christian fear to die. 


87 

being immortal? Or, dying, fear the pa- 
triot’s death? If I win, I shall return to 
crown my honors with your gracious 
blessing. If I fail, it shall be among the 
brave, and I shall be borne home to you 
wrapped in my country’s flag.” 

“ Love conquered Ambition once; but 
now Ambition conquers Love.” 

“ No! Ambition is now swallowed up 
in Love — love of country, love of home, 
love of wife and child. In these times of 
national peril, it is only the traitor that 
can refuse the call to war. In fighting 
for our native Southland, we are fighting 
for the institutions of our country and the 
sanctities of home.” 

“ What were country and home to me 
in widowhood, and little Jeb in orphan- 
age? ” 

“The Father of widowhood will pro- 
vide for you, and as for Jeb, God has 
transmitted into his veins the blue blood 
of his sire, and given him the gentle spirit 
of his mother. The miniature of us both, 
he will love his mother — ” 

“ Better than you love your wife,” she 
suggested. 

“ Ruth, your blessed words do almost 


88 

break the soldier’s purpose. But I must 
go. I have been educated for martial af- 
fairs. I am fitted for leadership in my 
country’s cause. Lee has promised pro- 
motion at the termination of this fur- 
lough. The bugle calls, and the South 
needs every patriot in the field.” 

“ O, Eugene, there are ten thousand 
other men to fill your place.” 

“ And ten thousand other women are 
now pleading with them as you are with 
me to keep them at home.” 

“ And do those men love their wives?” 

“ Ruth, don't, please. They have no 
such wives as mine.” 

“ Then I would you loved your coun- 
try less, your wife and baby more.” 

“ Be heroic as onl^ my Ruth can be.” 

“ It is not heroic to urge you on to 
death, and doom your wife and child to 
irretrievable misery.” 

“You remember the Spartan mother?” 

“The Spartan standard is obsolete.” 

“ But I must go.” 

“Eugene, this is the first time you 
have ever fought against my will.” 

“ It is the first time my country ever 
called upon me for my services.” 


89 

“ At the marriage altar you swore to 
renounce the whole world for me.” 

“ And I am now ready to fight the 
whole world for you.” 

“ I beg, I pray you stay, and if our 
homes are swept from us, I am willing to 
labor in the cotton field with you to re- 
pair our fortunes.” 

The old coachman here entered with a 
letter which the Major found to be a mes- 
sage from headquarters requesting him to 
report for duty. 

“ Tom,” he said to the coahman, “for 
some time you have proven yourself a 
worthy servant and an efficient coach- 
man. Your fidelity will be severely test- 
ed during my absence. Promise me, sir, 
that you will guard over this home and 
see that no harm comes to Mrs. Hendrix 
or the child. In case of danger, conduct 
them to places of safety. Defend them 
at any cost, and I will reward you boun- 
tifully.” 

“ I promise, sir, and you may feel 
sure that honest old Tom, faithful old 
Tom will be as constant as the Northern 
Star.” 

The coachman passed out and left the 


90 

family in the shadow of its sad adieus. 
Without a word, they moved round be- 
side the baby still sleeping in its bed. 
From Eugene’s eyes a tear fell down up- 
on its face, and then it smiled. Holding 
her fast once more to his heart, he kissed 
her on the forehead, saying, 

“This for country,’’’ and then on the 
mouth, adding, 

“ This for love ! ” 

Into his breast pocket she placed a 
little Testament with her parting bene- 
diction : 

“ May the God of the Bible be yours 
in battle.” And he was gone. 

She tried to peer out after him, but 
the fast-flowing tears obscured the sun- 
light itself. 

“OGod! lam nothing!” she said; 
“half of me on the battlefield, and half 
in the cradle ! ” 


XIII. 


The parting was so quickly done that 
she scarcely realized how he got away. 
But before she could recover from her 
immediate agitation, old Hamp blustered 
into the room : 

“ O, Miss Koof, in de name uv de He- 
brew chill’n, whut de mattah wid Marse 
Gene? ’’ 

“ He’s gone, Hamp!” she sobbed. 

“ He lit erstraddle uv de ole sorrel lak 
er flyin’-squir’l, ’n’ des fahly split de win’. 
Des ez he tuk de bridle f ’m my ban’, he 
gimme dishere, ’n’ say: ‘Gib it ter yer 
Mistis, Hamp, ’n’ ef ye ebber wuz good 
to ’er, be good to ’er whilst Ize gone dis 
time.’ ” 

Here he produced the Major’s watch. 


92 

and, with as much reverence as the ritual- 
ist would exhibit before the Madonna, he 
presented it to her in the name of his 
master. But she could not be consoled. 

“O, Hamp, what shall I do? He will 
be killed in battle, and I shall never see 
him again.’’ 

He patted her tenderly on the head, 
and assumed the roll of a right royal pro- 
tector. 

“ Dar now. Honey, doan you cry. Ole 
Hamp gwineter stick to ye closer’ n a 
brudder. Doan 3^011 cry. Honey, weze 
gwine er ’simmon-huntin, termorrer, ’n’ 
youze gwineter fergit de troubles ’n* trib- 
erlations uv dis ole world. Folks is des 
lak ’simmons, anyway — de fros’ got ter 
fall on ’em ’fo’ dey gits good. Doan you 
be skeered ’bout whut de Pres-y-dent 
gwineter do. Ole Hamp aint fergit his 
raisin’ yit. Whut do he keer ’bout de 
’mansipashun proclymashum? Aberham 
Lincum caint free dis nigger. Doan want 
no freedom.” 

“ The Yankees Avill get us all, Hamp, 
and — ” 

“Doan you be feared de Yankees, 
young Mistis. Tell ye. Miss Roof, Ize 


93 

de figlitines’ nigger in dezehere low- 
gronn's. Ef deni Yanks comes er jay- 
hawkin roun’ hyuh, deys gwineter ketch 
powder’n shot. ’N’ who you reckon 
gwineter pull de treeger? Why, yer un- 
cle Hampton, uv co’se. Hit er Blue-coat 
ehber time. Th ow rnyse’f in a holler 
squah and whoop er whole regyment uv 
’em. You be brave lak I iz. Honey, and 
hit’ll be allhunkydory.” 

But old Hamp did not know that the 
test of that bravery was at hand. Tom, 
the coachman, entered and announced: 

“ There’s a Federal officer at the door.’’ 

Hamp’s courage vanished at the men- 
tion of such a personage. In wildest ex- 
citement, the white of his eyes twice as 
large as usual, he exclaimed: 

“Which door? Which door? oo-oo-oo ! 
Say! Which door? oo-oo-oo!” and dash- 
ed out into an adjoining room and took 
refuge under the bed. 

“Tell him,” said Buth, speaking to 
Tom, “ that there is no one here except a 
woman and the servants, and ask him 
kindly not to terrify us with his pres- 
ence.” 

Tom bowed and withdrew. As he did 


94 

so, Hamp came sneaking back into the 
room, shaking from head to foot. 

“Is he' gone. Miss Roof? oo-oo-oo! ” 

“ I presume so ; but what sort of brav- 
ery is this? I thought you were going to 
fight, if necessary.” 

“ 4Vell, I didn’t rayly think ’twuz 
gwineter be necessary distime! ” 

As he stood trembling with fright, 
Ruth gave him a look of keen reproach. 
This brought Hamp apologetically for- 
ward : 

“Now, Miss Roof, doan scoT de ole 
nigger. De speret am willin’, but de 
flesh am weak. Now, I warnt ter say 
zackly skeered; but den my laigs — dey 
des natcherly run er mile er minit. Ye 
know, Missie, w’en ye sprize er man dis- 
erway, de enemy look twiced ez big ez he 
rayly is. Ye tek er man in de ca’m ’flec- 
tions uv home, ’n’ suddenly ’nounce de 
’ribal of a Feder’l officer, lemme tell ye 
sump’n. Honey, de averidge nigger’s pint- 
edly gwineter fly! ’’ 

“Well, Hamp, go and draw me some 
tea. I feel so exhausted that I must have 
something to steady my nerves.” 

“ Yes’m. Have dat tea ready in five 


95 


seconds. Est ez easy!” 

“ Go out the front door, and bring 
some of those shavings the carpenter left 
there to-day.” 

And she passed into the dining room. 

“ Yes’m! ’* said Hamp with emphasis, 
but with still greater emphasis did he re- 
member that the Federal officer might 
yet be somewhere near that same front 
door. Going to the bureau, he opened a 
drawer, produced a bottle of whiskey 
which his Mistress always kept there for 
medicinal purposes, and looked wistfully 
at the contents which he considered a bet- 
ter stimulant than ever came out of a 
teabox. He had never embezzled the ar- 
ticle before, but the temptation now was 
well-nigh overpowering, and indeed the 
proprieties of the occasion would justify 
his conscience in the appropriation of one 
or two good swills, anyway. Squaring 
himself in front of the mirror, and fancy- 
ing something unusually needful in his ap- 
pearance, he said: 

“ Clar ter greshus ef dezehere aint 
squally times, sho ! Got ter have suinp’n 
ter steddy my nerves.” And he suits the 
action to the word. Observing a sort of 


96 

shakiness in his limbs, he doubled the 
quantity at his next draught. Then, re- 
placing the bottle, he started for the front 
door; but visions of Bluecoats again mar- 
shalled before him, and he returned to 
spirits which he knew to be stronger than 
his own. 

“ I won'er ef dat Feder’l genterman 
still hankerin’ ’roun’ deze premises. De 
Lawd knows hit teks er sight uv bracin’ 
up fer dezehere wah times.” 

With his eyes on the front door, he 
swallowed the last of the liquor, and 
courageously risked his life, as he believ- 
ed, to get a few shavings. But the risk 
was brief. With his hands full of shav- 
ings which were stringing along the floor 
at every leap, he bounded across the room 
and into the next, where he was met by 
Ruth, who said: 

“ What are you running so for?” 

“ Why, Miss Roof, warnt ye in er pow- 
erful hurry ’bout de tea? ” he replied, en- 
deavoring to cover up his fright. 

“ O, you are so scared, Hamp, you 
don't know tea from gunpowder. Come 
here and watch the cradle, and I’ll make 
the tea myself. ’ 


97 

Hamp went to the bottle again as soon 
as she took her exit. He drained the 
last few drops into his mouth for a good 
taste, as he said, and poked fun at the 
idea of tea stimulating anybody. 

“ Dat tea business haint no good fer 
de nerves, nohow. Des er fashion ’mongst 
de wimmen. Ef ’twuz only fashionable, 
wimmen'd wear hoss-collahs fer sashes 'n' 
tater-pealin’s fer ribbins.” 

But Ruth interrupted his meditations 
by returning and chiding him for his 
cowardice : 

“Hamp, you’d better be more religious. 
If you ever do act a coward in that way 
again, the ghosts will get you sure.” 

If there was anything in this world 
Hamp was afraid of, it was a Federal sol- 
dier. But a ghost from the other world 
just paralyzed every hope of life here or 
hereafter. Falling on his knees at her 
feet, he begged : 

“ O, Miss Roof, doan say nuffin ’bout 
ghostes! Ye onsettle my min’, ’n’ gimme 
de weak trimm’ls ! ” 

Fearing that she might frighten him 
into harmful agitation, she tried to dis- 
suade him from his faith. 


98 


“O, llamp, I didn't mean it; there 
are no such things as ghosts.” 

“ Ye'z mighty hones’, Miss Roof, I 
reckon ; but ye caint fool dis nigger. Ize 
done seen ’em erfloppin’ dey wings, ’n’ 
ergoin’ ‘ Yoo-Voo-Voo ! ’ Ise seen de na- 
ked sperels.” 

“O, ghosts are nothing but shadows, 
Hamp.” 

“ Dars whar I gits ye. Honey: whut 
mek de shadder?” And his horror some- 
what disappeared to make room for his 
vanity in supposing that his last argu- 
ment about the reality of ghosts was un- 
answerable. 

“Well, you’d better get into the church 
and stay there,” said Ruth as she walked 
away into her bedchamber for a possible 
hour of quiet. Hamp took his seat be- 
side the cradle, rocking and soliloquizing: 

“ Clar ter greshus ef I doan belieb de 
young Mistis think I done gone clean 
slambang crazy. ’Deed ef I isn’t, Ize de 
spittin’ image uv de one whut is. Won’er 
which one uv de chu’ches de young Mistis 
referatin’ to. De Baptis’ preaches hell- 
fire and practices water f’m de ribber 
Jordan ter de kingdom come; and twixt 


99 

de fire and de water dars a spumin’ and a 
sputterin’ all de time. De Cambullites 
dey had de good Lawd under de water 
head ’n’ years ebber sence de day uv 
Pentecos’. Got him puttynigh drownded 
out, too. De Presbyteriums is de cleanes’ 
folks whut ebber made out’n clay. Deys 
made cleai^, ’n’ deys pretesternated clean, 
’ll’ dey haint gwineter be polluted wid no 
kind uv pollution, clean er onclean. Nig- 
ger haint got no business ti-yin ter lib 
’ligious wid ’em. De Mefodis' deys hot 
in de Summer ’n’ col’ in de Winter. Des 
lak de leaves on de trees, dey buds out in 
de Spring ’n’ dies in de Fall. ’N’ den de 
churches is all time quollin’ wid one ner 
whilst de DebbiFs gittin' de lam's. Folks 
lubs dey ternomination better’ll dey lubs 
dey Jesus.” 

A knock at the front door sent Ilamp 
through the opposite one with dispatch, 
and old Tom, the coachman, entered. He 
closed and locked the door through which 
Ilamp had passed, saw that Mrs. Hen- 
drix was buried in her pillow for rest, 
and then stood over the cradle where one 
slip of the lion's skin betrayed the don- 
key's ears. 


100 

“They do not dream that I am Harry 
Arnold in disguise. 

“ Sleep well, my child, for I shall this 
day steal your life from its mother, and 
teach you to call me father. My faithful 
accomplices shall convey you to my 
mountain home, where your little soul 
shall buy her final consent. She shall yet 
be my wife. My pals shall guard over 
you, my Jeb, while I remain here in — in- 
nocence! They will believe the Federal 
officer abducted you. O, Ruth, if you 
had married me, you would have been 
happy to-night. Having refused me, 
having deliberately broken your written 
promise to marry me, I will snatch this 
jewel from your bosom, and it shall 
henceforth shine only in the sunlight of 
the Alleghanies. I will make you believe 
I can find the child, will take you and 
your money, make a long, tedious and 
disappointing search, and then to our 
mountain cabin.'' 

Reconnoitering the place to be sure of 
safety, and with full confidence in his as- 
sociates who awaited him in the barn, 
he took the child into his arms, and, for a 
second, paused on the threshold of that 


101 


home, saying: 

“ The father to the war, the babe to 
the mountains. One and one are two!” 


XIV. 


Having conveyed the child to his pals 
in the barn, and having given them in- 
structions to carry it to his home in the 
mountains of East Tennessee, and there 
care for it till he should come, he return- 
ed to the house and himself raised the 
alarm. The Federal officer was the sus- 
pected party. To this all agreed. Ar- 
nold was happy. He saw the dawning of 
a new hope. He at once made a vigilant 
search throughout the city, as he made 
Ruth believe, and reported that it was 
impossible to ascertain anything with cer- 
tainty, but that in his opinion the child 
had been taken North by the Federal offi- 
cer. He feigned to have some knowl- 
edge of the route to be traveled by the 


103 

officer, and said that if Euth would fur- 
nish the money, and go with him to iden- 
tify the child, he believed he could re- 
cover deb. 

Reader, I will spare you the shrieks 
and cries of this woman plundered of her 
own flesh and blood. If ever a wife 
needed the counsel, the comforting pres- 
ence, the manl} aid of a husband, Euth 
needed them then. And her exigency was 
all the more intense because of the knowl- 
edge that her husband could not be reach- 
ed in time for the present necessity. 

And so, the half-crazed mother, like 
some benighted soul chasing a Will o’ 
The Wisp, eagerly conceded to Arnold’s 
suggestion, sold everything except the 
home itself, and began an expedition 
more joyless and perplexed than that of 
Stanley through the jungles of Africa. 
He fully charged and convinced her that 
she must not herself speak to people of 
her loss, lest general knowledge of the 
sequestration might specifically reach the 
abductors and doubly arm them to defeat 
successful detection. She therefore kept 
silence while he made his reports from 
police and other officers who never exist- 


104 

ed, gave her telegrams that were never 
received, informed her often that he was 
in close pursuit of the thieves whom, 
however, he created with special adapta- 
tion to each new situation, but never 
capturing the abductors or the child. In 
this longdrawn chain of hopes deferred, 
her life was continually drifting into the 
deeper shadows of despair that followed 
each anxious and blighted expectation. 
They traveled extensively over the Unit- 
ed States, Arnold everywhere delaying 
in order that the child might forget its 
mother. Then he conceived the scheme 
of taking her to some convenient retreat 
from which he could frequently visit Jeb 
for the purpose of winning the child’s af- 
fections. Accordingly, he carried her to 
the town of Jonesboro, East Tennessee, 
secured for her a room and board indefi- 
nitely at the Sevier Hotel, and, by a se- 
ries of improvised reports, kept her there 
for months. His attention was largely 
given to a thorough conquest of the baby’s 
love. And well did he succeed, so well 
that very soon Arnold was the baby’s all- 
in-all. Jeb was now talking nicely, and 
the language he had learned was full of 


105 

expressions of devotion to his abductor. 
Four or five days of every week were 
spent sixty miles away with the child. 
Then his reports to Ruth deceived her in- 
to a trust that Jeb would now surely be 
re-captured. Finally he came for her to 
go and identify her baby. From Jones- 
boro a long and weary journey brought 
her to a cabin among the lesser heights of 
the Blue Ridge. 

Dear reader, before we enter this cab- 
in, I want you to look at this combina- 
tion character that has evaded real iden- 
tification during many months of daily 
association with those whom he has de- 
ceived. Six feet tall, straight as the abo- 
riginal Indian, a step with something of 
the lightness and more of the stealthi- 
ness of a cat, a hand as white and deli- 
cately carved as a woman’s, a small and 
high-arched foot, head erect and proud, 
forehead full and high, a significant con- 
cave in the region of conscience, the 
crown of the head rising somewhat high- 
er than any other part of the skull, thick 
heavy jaws, bulging out wide underneath 
diminutive ears, a broad, square and 
double chin, large mouth with rather sen- 


106 

siious lips, teeth as firm and even as those 
the dentist makes for you, Roman nose, 
slight wrinkles running down from the nos- 
trils past the corners of the mouth, giving 
the lower part of the face an expression of 
slumbering scorn, complexion clear and 
smooth, small, round, jet-black eyes 
looking out in chilling frigidness from 
underneath ebony brows, curly black hair 
hanging in graceful waves above his 
shoulders, a general aire hauteur, and 
you see Harry Arnold, always well-dress- 
ed, scrupulously clean as Robespierre, 
and notwithstanding some ungainly feat- 
ures, an imposing physique. Let us now 
inspect him in disguise. One eye covered 
with a leather flap, the other half closed 
continuously, a sort of Coates plaster 
over a mendacious canker occupying al- 
most all of one side and all the bridge of 
the nose, white full beard fitting to the 
face like a suture, every point of union 
being overlapped and hidden by the 
beard itself better than could have been 
done by any joining paste, an immaculate 
wig from which a broad-brimmed hat was 
never removed in the presence of others, 
brows re-built to harmonize with wig and 


107 

beard, hands stained and dingy, a hob- 
bling gait as though one leg were shorter 
than the other, a bent form as of eighty 
years, a stuffed place in his coats giving 
the appearance of a hunchback, large, • 
foxy shoes, soiled clothing, a nervous 
manner and a cracked, piping voice — and 
this is old Tom, the coachman. 

As they entered the cabin a presenti- 
ment came to Kuth that soon fully mate- 
rialized in the following interview: 

“ And what place is this?” inquired 
Ruth, looking suspiciously around the 
desolate room. 

“Be seated, Mrs. Hendrix, and I will 
tell you. For months we have traveled 
over this country searching for your 
child. Everywhere we went, through 
camp and city, the dear little Jeb was 
just ahead of us. We have spent thou- 
sands of your money, gone through many 
weary days and nights, but found no Jeb. 
During all this time you have been your 
natural self, but I have been only a mask. 
This cabin is my home.” 

He retires to an adjoining room for a 
few moments, and then returns and stands 
completely revealed before her as Harry 


108 

Arnold. Her discomposure was over- 
whelming, but, in the calmness of des- 
peration, she met his icy gaze with scorn 
and said : 

•“ The snake has shed his skin ! ” 

“ Reserve your epithets. They will 
only aggravate your misery. Marry me 
and be happy.” 

“ Blinded by a mother’s love for her 
child, I did not see the meshes of the net 
you wove around me. God in Heaven 
curse the hour, and curse my soul when I 
become your wife! ” 

“You are as helpless as a dove in a 
trapper’s cage.” 

“ I am captured, but not conquered! ” 

“Well, I am in for the war, and my 
sword shall not be sheathed until my fair 
enemy shall have capitulated.” 

“ Then shall it rust from its hilt in 
this mountain air. You fight, but, sir, 
you are not a brave man. Your weapons 
are treachery, and cunning, and coward- 
ice.” 

“Escape is hopeless; my guards belt 
this mountain.” 

“ You mean, sir, that I am never to be 
released? ” 


' 109 

“Not till you change your name to 
Mrs. Harry Arnold.” 

“Kather would I re-christen you — 
Benedict Arnold!” 

“ But you shall have money.” 

“ I scorn your thirty pieces of silver.” 

“ It shall be a million.” 

“ And a million agonizing memories 
such as true women never know. If you 
have one drop of mercy in your soul, slay 
me, and I will give you the only blessing 
of my life, — the gratitude of a dying wo- 
man. NO! You will not slay your vic- 
tim as soon as captured, but, like' the 
condor, you lacerate its arteries and drink 
its life as it is created day by day. Blood- 
sucking vampire! O, I could hill you! ” 

“ Do it, and Love will call me back to 
life, and I will stand transfigured before 
you perhaps a better man.” 

“ Angels have fallen to the state of 
devils, but devils have never risen to the 
state of angels. As God translated Eli- 
jah to Heaven, so may He translate you 
to Hell!” 

Shocked at her own terrific words, she 
turned away from him and apologized to 
her very soul: 


110 

“ The cruelty of this modern Nero has 
made me forget the gentle vocabulary of 
my girlhood, and taught me a language as 
foreign to my native spirit as the jargon 
of the cannibal.” 

“ Ruth, I am sorry to see you so furi- 
ous; I had a pleasant surprise in store 
for you,” he interrupted. 

“ You are incapable of giving me pleas- 
ure, sir, unless you can slay me or send 
me home.” 

“Then you do not care to see little 
Jeb.” 

“ O, sir, is Jeb here? Jeb! Jeb! Here’s 
Mamma, Jeb ! ” 

As she attempts to press her way 
through the door, he prevents her. She 
falls on her knees before him and prays: 

“ Harry Arnold, in the name of niy 
bruised and bleeding heart, I beg you for 
my child.” 

“ Will you be my wife? ” was the flagi- 
tious exaction. 

Almost in sight of her blessed child, 
her heart was breaking to receive it. 

“ O, sir, why do you torture me thus?” 

He crouched over her as though he 
might tear her in pieces, and said: 


Ill 

“ Because } ou are beautiful I Because 
that beauty has filled luy heart with a 
devil’s passion to crush or conquer! ” 
Himself fearing that he might do her 
bodily harm, he passed into the next 
room, closed the door, and she heard the 
key turn against her. 


XV. 


Presently he returns, and, at her feet, 
he throws a little pink slipper which Jeb 
had worn in his earlier infancy, and again 
closes the door between them. To a dis- 
consolate mourner longing for the dawn, 
that tiny shoe was like a sunbeam burst- 
ing through midnight, but it was mid- 
night still. She eagerly snatched the 
slipper from the floor, showered her kiss- 
es upon it, called it precious names, and 
thought if she could only see him then, 
he would be well-nigh infinitely sweeter 
than when he slept and cooed in his cra- 
dle. She remembered the very creases 
in the shoe, and filled them with her 
tears. O, blissful consciousness, that Jeb 
was near her once more; but O, harrow- 
ing afterthought, that her consent to 


113 

marry the brigand was the ransom price 
for the hostage. Through the closed 
door her voice in pleading sought the 
bandit’s ear: 

“Harry Arnold, bring me my child, 
and I will be kinder to you.” 

The door opened, but only to admit 
Arnold who said: 

“Will you be ray wife?” 

“I would rather be incarcerated in the 
hollow caves of this mountain to be the 
prey of the wild beasts that inhabit them.” 

“Then I say to you, finally, that you 
shall never look upon your child again. 
This moment shall settle it forever. En- 
dure me as your husband, or forget your 
baby’s face.” 

“Sir, your exactions are merciless. 
You know that I cannot and will not 
marry you. You steal my child and hold 
him as a ransom for my heart ; but be ad- 
vised that, much as I love him, rather 
than make such an alliance with you, I 
would see him die.” 

“Then I will present you with his dead 
body,” retorted Arnold in a rage, passing 
back into the other room and slamming 
the door viciously. Whether he meant to 


114 

execute this threat, she could not tell, 
but the horrors of an assassination with 
her baby as the victim, and that, too, sim- 
ply to torture her, made her quite willing 
to do anything except the one importunate 
demand which she could not entertain 
though the heavens should fall. Mother- 
love for offspring, especially for helpless 
infancy, is the strongest tie that can bind 
humanity to its own. Martyrdom cannot 
subdue it. It is deeper than the love of 
life. It shows no white flag at the on- 
slaught of Death. But there is a greater 
than this. It is the love of honor — that 
love which has been the guardian of vir- 
tue for all the ages. For this love woman 
will renounce friends, home, country, 
kindred, life. Yea, she will do more. 
For it she will sign the death warrant of 
her only begotten son. And in this fidel- 
ity to pristine purity woman is God's cus- 
todian of the virtues of the race — the 
keeper of the seal of man’s divine pater- 
nity. This love is the angel part of hu- 
manity’s life. Upon its bosom still bloom 
the lilies of Eden. Its language is not in 
the science of semeiotics, and yet all na- 
tions understand its speech. At its silent 


115 

command the chevalier doffs his helmet 
and sheathes his sword, and in its majes- 
tic presence the libertine stands in awe. 
And Arnold had more than once trem- 
bled in the battle she was lighting. On 
reflection, he believed that if he should 
really immolate the child on the altar of 
his passion, she would become as desper- 
ate as he and end her own life. This 
would forever defeat his purpose and sad- 
den his existence. 

Instead, therefore, of laying rough 
hands on the child, he drew the door ajar 
and pushed Jeb into the room. When 
Euth beheld him, she stretched her hun- 
gry arms and rushed after him so eagerly 
as to frighten the little thing from her 
approach. As she pursued he ran crying 
unto “Papa” who had closed the door 
again leaving the mother and child alone. 
In vain did she say, “Jeb! Jeb! This is 
Mamma, Jeb! Come to me, baby, this is 
Mamma.” He continued running while 
she continued her effort to catch him. 
After a long chase during which she was 
fearful that excessive fright might result 
in harm, she called aloud to Arnold, beg- 
ging him to assist her in restoring the 


116 

child to a recognition of its mother. 
Through the unopened door came his re- 
ply •• 

“He does not know the voice that 
sang his lullaby nor the face that smiled 
upon him while he slept. Will you be 
my wife?” 

But the taunt of cruelty had no terrors 
for her then. Again she began her en- 
treaties with Jeb. Again he shied away 
from her. If she followed him too close- 
ly he would run and scream as though 
some wild beast were after him. He had 
not seen a woman since memory began. 
Only the roughest of rough men were fa- 
miliar forms to him. Arnold walked in 
upon her grief and seated himself as a 
spectator to a pleasing tournament. Jeb 
at once ran to him and sat in his lap. 
The brute had visited his lair very often, 
and had made his study and his business 
a conquest of Jeb’s love. And he was 
the only person on earth the child was at- 
tached to. It was a great victory for 
Arnold. Presently, eyeing the mother in 
awe, the baby said : 

“Who iy. it, papa?” 

The sharp sting of that word, “papa,” 


117 


stirred the profoundest deep of her moth- 
erhood, and shook to violence her wifely 
instincts. She rushes at him viciously, 
grapples at his throat with her right 
hand, and snatches the child behind her 
with the left, and as Arnold rises and 
they measure each other’s frenzy, Kuth 
submerges him in her indignation. In a 
broken, gasping, gutteral voice, she said: 

“You — teach him — to call you — fath- 
er!” And her eyes held such intense 
fierceness upon him that he winced be- 
fore it, and sullenly turned into an ad- 
joining room. 

Jeb tries to follow him, but is detained. 
Now comes the renewal of her effort for 
recognition in her baby’s mind. Soon he 
was calm and attentive to the stranger’s 
manner. What power could have wrought 
the change? Was it a mother’s touch 
thrilling the secret springs of life anew? 

“Baby, this is Mamma; don’t you 
know Mamma? Come and let me love 
you, my precious baby.” 

A happy thought that Eugene’s watch 
might attract him, brought Jeb to a will- 
ing seat upon her lap. Into his ears she 
poured the caressing, liquid tones of ba- 


118 

byhood that rang about his life like the 
faint echoes of long-sung anthems in a 
cathedral. But Jeb was now absorbed 
with the watch and did not know her. 

“W’at’s on 'e inside?” said the child. 

“Why, it's pretty on the inside; see?” 
and she opens it for him. 

He was getting more and more at home 
with the stranger, but her impatient anx- 
iety could not wait the tardy moments. 

“Jeb, look at me now; this is your 
own dear Mamma, baby; don’t you know 
Mamma, now?” 

“My name Jeb,” abstractedly spoke 
the child. 

What a happy dawning to the long, 
dark night. Joy and pain were both 
dominant, but even a share of bliss like 
this made sorrow endurable. Hugging 
Jeb passionately, she answered: 

“And I am your own Mamma, Jeb; 
don’t you know me now?” 

“W’at’s your name?” queried the 
child. 

“I’m just your Mamma, that’s all. 
This is not your home, Jeb. Mamma has 
a nice home for her baby. Don't you 
know Mamma, now,Jeb?” 


119 

But he only continued his admiration 
of the watch. 

“Look at me now, Jeb. Don’t you 
remember the little red wagon and old 
Bow-Wow?’’ 

Jeb glances up and smiles. 

“And how old Bow-Wow used to haul 
you over the flower-beds?” 

“Iz you zat same Mamma?” said the 
child, the dim, shadowy vagueness of ba- 
by days slowly coming up through a misty 
memory. 

“Why, yes, Jeb,” rapturously answer- 
ed the mother as she held him closer. 

“Long time ago?” came the baby 
voice, dwelling on the word “long” as 
though an age were in it. 

“Yes, my precious baby, long time 
ago,” for surely no one could feel as she 
could feel how long, how very long it had 
been. 

“Don’t you know Mamma, now? Put 
your arms around me, and hug me tight, 
won’t you, please?” 

He does so, and her heart flutters with 
joy. 

“Now, once more, awfully hard this 
time.” 


120 

Jeb gets his little arms very close about 
her neck, hugs her hard and grunts heavi- 
ly to intensify the deed. Then he sat on 
her knees, looked her into the eyes, felt 
all over her face, smiled, and tenderly 
spoke just a single word — one thrilling 
word that set all her pulses aglow. 

“Mamma!” he said, and nestled close 
upon her bosom. The child was hers at 
last. 


XVI. 


Jealous of her happiness, Arnold again 
invaded the sanctity of her hopes and 
said : 

“ Now, Mrs. Hendrix, I am glad the 
child has recognized you. I stole him 
from his cradle for the pleasure of this 
hour. Even you have yourself been made 
happy in this event. I now ask you to 
remain here as my wife.’’ 

She hugs her child as though it might 
take wings and fly into his arms. She 
does not answer him, but only gazes at 
him in disdain. 

“ I understand,” he said; “I have been 
cruel to you, but you have been stubborn- 
ly obdurate with me. I hold your writ- 
ten promise, signed in the old jail, in 


122 

Memphis, that you would marry me. 
True, you were then under duress, but 
my act saved your life and his. You were 
not then his wife. You deliberately 
broke that obligation in order to marry 
him. You cannot hope to escape. My 
guards are stationed about this mountain, 
and miles of solid forest surround you. 
Your husband is only the poor soldier of 
a defeated Confederacy.” 

“ Release me, sir, and I shall be happy 
to be the wife of such a soldier.” 

“ You could not be. The luxury and 
splendor of the Southern aristocracy un- 
der which you were reared would rise like 
spectres to mock your poverty and your 
toil for the necessities of life. Become 
my wife, and I promise you that you shall 
never want for the slightest delicacy heart 
could crave or soul enjoy.” 

Still caressing and entertaining Jeb, 
she gave Arnold a look the silence of 
which was the eloquence of sovereign 
contempt. To him it was the echo of an 
eternal NO. But he was determined to 
torture her until her consent should end 
his cruelty, or his cruelty should end her 
life. He bethought him of an expedient 


123 


which might, by dint of habit, ingratiate 
him into her affections. It occurred to 
him that if she would address him always 
only as “ husband,” and if he would ad- 
dress her always only as “ wife,” and this 
to be continued for years, it would invest 
each life with something of the character 
which the terms suggest, and in the long 
run, combined with unbroken and inevi- 
table captivity, might soften her hatred 
into a respectful concession to make the 
best she could of an undesirable consort. 
So, he presented to her this proposition, 
that if she would recognize him only by 
the address of “ husband,” and allow him 
to speak to her only as “ wife,” for two 
years, he would release her, if, at the end 
of that time, she should not wish to mar- 
ry him. Elated at the prospect, she 
quickly and eagerly answered: 

“Will you do that, sir? ” 

“ Ah,” thought Arnold, “ not con- 
quered yet. I’ll multiply two by ten be- 
fore I release her. And yet, spoken 
words have a reflex action on the soul. It 
may help me.” 

Turning to her, he focalized the sug- 
gestion by committing himself to it first. 


124 


“ Yes, I promise; will you agree? ” 

“ I will, sir ; get the Bible and swear 
it.” 

“ There are no Bibles here; those who 
break promises are put to the sword.” 

“ Well, I agree,” said Euth, anxious 
to close the deal before he should repu- 
diate it. 

“ Then say ‘husband! ’ ” he command- 
ed. 

“H-us-band!” she said reluctantly, 
but her tones smote upon her own ears 
like sacrilege. 

“ Wife! ” said Arnold, as though she 
were already half his own. “ These ten- 
der words shall be the only terms of ad- 
dress between us.” 

And here he took out his rifle and 
hunting-coat from an old box preparatory 
to duck-shooting on the lake half a mile 
away. Outside the cabin another scene 
is worthy of our notice. Leaning on his 
staff, a poor man, broken in body and 
spirit, shabbily appareled in citizen’s 
clothes, an old broadbrimmed hat 
slouching down over his face upon which 
the unshaven beard of many months and 
many storms grew matted and tangled. 


125 

complexion tanned and rough from ex- 
posure, a pair of goggles concealing a 
pair of sightless eyeballs, led by an aged 
negro — this strange man and attendant 
came quietly through the moonlight and 
stealthily into the shadow of the chalet. 
In the cabin were Harry Arnold, Kuth 
and Jeb; just outside stood Major Hen- 
drix and old Hamp. 


XVII. 


“ Dishere’s de place, Marse Gene,” 
said Hamp in a whisper, peeping through 
a crack in the cabin wall. 

“ Par’s Miss Roof wid de chile in her 
lap des ez natcher’l ez life. O Marse 
Gene, I wants ter holler.” 

“Keep quiet, Hainp,” commanded 
the Major softly. “ To whom is she talk- 
ing? ” 

“ ’Fo’ de good Lawd, Marse Gene, ef 
hit aint dat same pizenhanded Harry Ar- 
nold.” 

“ Well, hush, now, and tell me what 
they say.” 

Arnold had gotten everything ready 
for the proposed duck-hunt, and was in 
the act of leaving. But he could not re- 


127 

frain from taking a little practice on the 
new titles which, in future, should not only 
designate, but he hoped would mutually 
endear himself and Mrs. Hendrix. 

“ Well, wife,” he said, scrutinizing her 
face to ascertain what effect the appella- 
tion might have upon her. 

“ Yes, husband,” she replied kindly, 
entering as bravely as possible on her 
hateful task. 

“ Supper will be ready right in here 
after while. 1 shall return in about an 
hour.” 

“ All right, husband,” and her answer 
grated on her senses. 

But Arnold was gone, and there came 
an interim of joy with her child. 

“ O, Marse Gene,” cried Hamp in a 
broken undertone ; “ she done married 
to him; she call him husband, ’n’ he call 
her wife.” 

“ Yes, Hamp. I heard it all,” sobbed 
Eugene, falling upon his knees, and dig- 
ging his fingers into the earth. “ I would 
have staked the world that she would 
keep her faith with her first love. When 
that old bomb put out my eyes at Gettys- 
burg, why did it not put out my life? 


128 

Hamp, is she beautiful yet? ” 

“ Des ez putty ez she wuz dat Sunday 
mavvnin’ w’en ye led her ter de altar. 
He‘s gone, Marse Gene; lemme go in ’n’ 
see her ’n’ de baby once mo’.’’ 

“Not now, Hamp. I did not know that 
human pain could be so great. The jew- 
els have been plucked from the hilt of my 
sword. The darkness of extinguished 
sight is not so deep as the darkness of 
extinguished love. O, if Memory could 
only bury the spectres of my dead happi- 
ness. I am willing to be blind. I do not 
ask my eyes back again. I do not need 
them now. I only ask that God may 
somehow mend my broken heart. Hamp, 
lead me to the door. Now leave me for 
awhile.” 

“ Marse Gene, w'en ye gits froo ’n’ gits 
erway, caint I come back ’n’ see her ’n’ 
de baby once mo’? ” 

“ Yes, Hamp, but go now,” he said, 
and Hamp left him there, and went away 
into the shades of the trees where he fell 
down and prayed that God would re-unite 
his Mistress and his Master in all the hap- 
piness of olden times. 

When Eugene would have knocked at 


129 

the door, his heart failed him, and he 
stood overwhelmed in his lamentations. 

“ She — is — my — wife — no — more ! How 
can anything so beautiful be so false? Why 
were the beautiful made to deceive? And 
why will not beauty fade when it has be- 
trayed the faithful? And why should the 
faithful be left desolate? O, what an 
impenetrable wall rises between us! I 
wonder if it would be sacrilege to ask 
God to let me die on this spot. The Con- 
federacy dead, wife and child abducted, 
eyesight gone and all my hopes in ashes. 
I have heard of those who died of broken 
hearts. Others will hear of me. Listen 
to my death-knell.” 

He timidly knocks at the door, and, 
endeavoring to still further disguise him- 
self, feels safe from recognition. Ruth 
opens the door. 

“ What is it, sir? ” 

“ My good woman, I am almost ex- 
hausted from hunger and fatigue. May 
I ask you to give me a little bread?” 

But it was not bread he wanted. There 
was a greater solicitude than mere bodily 
discomliture. He did not wish to be re- 
instated with her. He craved only to 


130 

hold Jeb to his heart again. In his pock- 
et was the little Bible which Ruth had 
placed there on his departure for war. 
It was scarred by a ininnieball. It had 
saved his life. He could not see why it 
had not saved her love. She returned 
and placed the bread in his hand. 

“ Thank you, my good woman, I shall 
eat it when I am gone, and gratefully re- 
member your kindness.” 

“ Who iz it. Mamma?” asked Jeb, who 
had been watching him curiously. 

“Ah!” thought Eugene, “he calls 
her Mamma; O, Jeb, come and call me 
Papa! ” 

“ Can’t he see you, Mamma? ” the 
child said. 

“ No, Jeb, he cannot see Mamma.” 

“Audi am glad I cannot,” was the 
echo in the real husband’s heart. 

“You have a child,” he said to Ruth. 

“Yes, sir; dear little Jeb.” 

“Come here, Jeb,” plead the father, 
though his voice began to tremble. 

Ruth kindly leads the child to him and 
places its hand in his. The stricken man 
could scarcely stand. As he bent over 
the precious one, his strength gave way, 


131 


and he fell heavil}^ to his knees. He 
hugged his baby tenderly and tried to 
whisper something sweet, but his heart 
was lodged in his throat, and the words 
would not come. After a brief interval, 
during which Ruth was glad for even a 
strange blind man to show kindness to her 
long ill-treated child, Eugene spoke, his 
head still bowed. 

“ My dear lady, you are good and 
kind, and I should be glad to remain in 
your presence forever, but a blind man 
could be no society or assistance to you.” 

“ Why do you weep over this child you 
never saw and never can see?” 

This unexpected query forced his arms 
still more affectionately about the only 
thing on earth he loved. 

“ O, my good woman, it brings back 
the face of my own little child. He had 
a pretty head like this one. And these 
long silken curls are so soft and waving, 
just like his. What a beautiful face this 
must be.” 

“ Iz you somebody's Papa? ” came the 
crushing interrogation which he could 
not answer affirmatively, and yet which 
he could never deny. 



132 

“Yes, Jeb!” he said, and then “ No I 
No! ” and he covered the child with his 
sobs. 

“ W’at makes ’im kwy. Mamma?” ask- 
ed the child, brushing the father’s tears 
from its own face. 

“ He is thinking of his own little child 
that’s dead, baby,” Kuth explained. 

“ Aint you sorry for him. Mamma?” 

Eugene thought he could not endure 
another question from the wonder-strick- 
en Jeb. 

“Very sorry, my darling,” said Ruth; 
“ he has no little baby to make him hap- 
py as you make me, Jeb.’* 

“ Let me be his little baby. Mamma! ’ 
was the overwhelming, melting sympathy 
of the pitying babe. Eugene could hear 
his very heart-strings snapping, and his 
soul struggling to release itself from its 
weight of grief. 

“ O, God, bear me up a little longer! ’ 
he prayed in the silence of his desolation. 

“How do you travel alone?” asked 
Ruth, and the business-like tone brought 
some relief. 

“ I am not alone, good woman; an old 
servant is waiting for me hardby.” 


13 ;-^ 

“ How did you lose your sight?” 

“ It was in the battle of Gettysburg. 
A bomb burst near me, and the light went 
out.” 

“ Were you in any of the departments 
of Lee’s Army, sir?” 

“I was, my dear lady, until I was car- 
ried from that field on a litter.” 

“Did you know an officer by the name 
of — ” but he quickly interrupted her. 

“ My good woman, I cannot speak of 
those terrible times. They stir memories 
I cannot endure. Before I leave you, 
may I not ask a soldier’s privilege of kiss- 
ing the hand that gave me bread?” 

Why he made this strange request he 
could not tell. Certainly, he did not de- 
sire what he asked. But as he took her 
hand, there was a lurking thrill in her 
touch that almost broke his Arden-like 
resolve “never to tell her, never to let 
her know.” Then the revulsion came, 
and he could not press his lips to that 
treacherous hand. He only feigned to do 
so, and said: 

“ Dear lady, good l)ye.” 

“Good bye, and God bless you, sir.“ 
was her gentle farewell. And then he 


134 

took the child, and held him close and 
lovingly, saying: 

“ Good bye, Jeb! ” and started away. 
But he could not go. Feeling his way 
back to the little one, he once more held 
him tenderly, kissed him often and over 
again, and then calling all his might into 
requisition, released his baby, sadly re- 
peating 

“ Good bye, Jeb I ” 

He heard the door close upon him, and 
as he felt his way with his staff, he moved 
slowly off, saying: 

“ Good bye — and — good bye! Hearing 
is enough. Blindness is a blessing some- 
times.” 


1 


XVIII. 


The disconsolate man had scarcely 
strength to creep away. He was soon met 
by Hamp who assisted him to a place of 
safety and then returned to take a final 
glance at his Mistress and her baby. 

“ O, Miss Roof, I could’n’ belieb ye 
ebber would do diserway,” he wailed as 
he peeped through a crack in the wall of 
the cabin. 

“Done got de wrong man dis time. 
De pizen-oak growed up all ’roun’ him till 
ye better not tetch him. He heart turn 
ter gizzard ’n’ he soul turn ter lizzard. 
Grown folks des same lak chill’n — dey 
wants ter play wid de rattlesnake des 
kaze dey laks de soun’ uv de rattle. De 
Bible say de lion ’n’ de lam’ be yoked 


m 

togedder. Deni ole prophets know whut 
(ley talkin’ ’bout.” 

But Hamp’s gospel was abruptly ended 
when Arnold came upon him unawares. 
The frightened negro started on a run, but 

“ Halt! You rascal! ” and the glisten 
of a gun-barrel in the moonlight brought 
him to a stand-still. Even the Federal 
officer had not scared him so. An ague 
shook him from head to foot. He stood 
with his back to Arnold who said: 

“Who are you?” 

“I doan know, sir,” replied Hamp, 
slowly falling to his knees and quivering 
all over. He is well disguised, but fear- 
ing possible recognition, he pulls his old 
hat down over his face, squints his white 
eyes and waits the next command. 

“Stand up!” ordered Arnold. He 
rises, his knees knocking together, his 
fingers spread wide, pointing downward 
and shaking violently, his breath coming 
in gasps, and visions of eternity floating 
before him. 

“ Turn round! ” was the stern bidding 
of this terror of the mountains. Hamp 
whirls entirely around, facing exactly as 
before. 


137 


“ Xot so far; face me!” 

“ He skeer me, he sheer me; he turn 
me wrong-out-side-ards! ” moaned the 
excited negro. 

“ Face me, Isay!” and this time it 
was so imperious as to portend immediate 
death to Hamp. 

“ Ize a dead nigger! Ize a dead nig- 
ger, sho! ” moaned Hamp as he twisted 
two thirds about, and stood eyeing this 
man of blood. 

“ I allow no stray negroes here! ” said 
Arnold. But no sooner said than Hamp 
took the hint and started to run. 

“ Yes’r, Ize done gone! ” 

“ Stop, you scoundrel! Can you run? ” 

“Yes’r, fly lak er quarterhorse.” 

“ Then I want you to start down this 
mountain double quick, and not stop for 
a hundred miles. Do you hear me? ” 

“ Yes’r, I hyuhs ye good.” And he 
swallows audibly. 

“ Can you dance? ” 

“ No sir; Ize er meni’er uv de chu’ch !” 
snubbed Hamp, but his religion was a 
long way below par when compared with 
his fright. 

“Then I’ll kill you!” said Arnold, 


188 

raising his gun. Ilainp staggered and he 
almost fell, hut somehow his feet began 
to shuffle as he both spoke and acted the 
truth. 

‘‘ Yes’r, yes’r, I Mn dance a leetle bit.” 

“ Dance higher !” prompted the mas- 
ter of ceremonies. Hamp obeyed, leap- 
ing three feet above ground and doubling 
himself into all the gyrations of a limber- 
jack. 

“ Dance faster I ” roared the Terpsi- 
chorean manager. At this decree Hamp’s 
feet and legs went through the air like a 
pail* of oldfashioned winding blades gear- 
ed with electricity. He was dancing for 
his life, and he had never succeeded half 
so well at any cornshucking. 

“ Dance better! ” But this was an 
unexpected climax. He had already done 
his very best. What could he do? If 
there was a degree better than best, he 
was willing to metamorphose himself in- 
to a harpy’s image to acquire it. To run 
was death; to remain there in front of 
that gun in the hands of that Raw-Head- 
And-Bloody-Bones, was immediate and 
everlasting torment. But he had to do 
one or the other. So, he decided to risk 


la;) 

his legs for flight rather than for better 
dancing As he bent all his energies to 
make the despei*ado believe he was excel- 
ling himself, he ambled over close to a 
large tree. In a twinkling he had dodge:! 
behind it, and, before Arnold could lo- 
cate him, he had disappeared in the 
bushes, and was putting distance between 
them at the rate of forty miles an hour. 
Passing by the Major, Ha np swung h's 
master over his sho aider as though he were 
a child, and rudied on down them )iiritain 
side. 


XIX. 


In the cabin, Ruth’s apartments were up 
stairs — half story, half garret. Her only 
avenue of descent was through Arnold’s 
room. When Arnold was absent, one of 
his guards slept there. Fora longtime she 
had dreamed of escape, but several insur- 
mountable obstacles always intervened. 
She was afraid to pass through the senti- 
nel’s dormitory, for she was not sure but 
some one kept unbroken vigils there. 
Then, the old stairway was so rickety, and 
creaked so loud under her feet that she was 
certain to awaken the sleeper. She also 
knew that, after she had been ordered 
to her room at a regulated hour each 
night, she often heard tiny bells some- 


141 

where about the hut, and most likely 
those bells were attached to cords that 
intercepted every place of exit, and she 
would, in all probability, run against them 
in trying to escape, causing the bells to 
ring, and thus alarm the house. In this 
case, all hope of future leniency would be 
gone. Again, she knew that she would 
at best have only one chance in a hundred 
of finding her way through a deep and 
dense forest, and that she might be de- 
voured by wild beasts. Or, if she were 
overtaken in her flight, the seal of relent- 
less captivity would be her doom. But 
she resolved to undertake her emancipa- 
tion, and to meet any unforeseen emer- 
gency as her wisdom might direct. That 
Jeb might sleep soundly that night, she 
kept him awake all day. In the evening 
she dressed him for the escapade, and 
suffered him to go to bed without change. 
In the desolate stillness of midnight, with 
her unawakened child in her arms, she 
began her passage down this bridge of 
sighs. Slowly as one approaches the 
thought of dearth, but eagerly as one who 
sees the light of Heaven beyond the 
grave, she moved along, step by step. 


142 

carefully feeling about for the cords and 
bells. And sure enough, her hand touch- 
ed the rope. Sitting upon the white-oak 
pole that served as a banister, she quietly 
untied the hemp from a nail on the wall, 
and, not allowing it to slip, fastened it to 
the railing, and crept on to the lower 
landing. Here she struck a chair, mak- 
ing a slight noise, and some one stirred 
in the bed. If he should wake, she knew 
he could hear the beating of her heart. 
For a moment, she nearly died under the 
extreme nervous tension. But the man 
had only turned in his sleep. Then she 
moved on to the next room, and to the 
front door which she successfully un- 
barred and opened. She passed out, shut 
the door, replaced the bar by means of a 
string, the manipulation of which was 
known only to the inmates, and set out 
upon her journey. Only a few feet from 
the door she came in contact with a rope, 
and the bells rang. The dog also barked 
ferociously. But the bark was her salva- 
tion. By it Arnold’s attention was kept 
on the outside, and he did not so much as 
suspect an elopement from within. Final- 
ly he concluded that the dog himself must 


143 


have struck the rope, and returned to his 
bed. On through the night Kuth and her 
baby went, guiding their course as best 
she could by the stars. 




XX. 


Several weary days and wofnl nights 
went by, and Ruth and the child still 
wandered in a hopeless circle in the 
woods. No food, no water, Jeb was ex- 
hausted, and she was sustained only by 
that supernatural stimulant — a mother’s 
love. The baby had fallen at her side, 
and she was bending over him, adminis- 
tering to him all that loving attention 
could give. 

“Jeb! ” she said softly, but no reply. 

“ His little feet are sore from walking, 
and I can carry him no longer. His 
tongue is dry; his lips are parched; his 
head is feverish; his breathing is diffi- 
cult.” 

“ M-a-mma! ” faintly plead the child. 

“ What is it, ihy darling baby?-” said 


145 


Kuth, and she held her ear close. 

“Want some water!” was the half- 
conscions and oft-repeated, broken pray- 
er of her baby, as he lay, white and ema- 
ciated, on his bed of leaves. 

“‘Want some water!’ IIow often 
have I heard that cry in vain! Fleeing 
from my captivity, lost in a forest with 
my child, I cannot give him food or 
drink; I cannot see him die! O God, 
Father of the helpless. Thou who didst 
hear the cry of Hagar and of Ishmae), 
give my baby drink! O give me but the 
instinct of a brute to search for water!” 

Suddenly, from a ravine, the form of 
Arnold emerged, and he stood gloating 
over her utter helplessness. A hungry 
bear would have been a more welcome 
visitor. Slowly rising and contemplating 
him fiercely, she said: 

“The hound has overtaken the hare! 
I would pray to you for mercy, but it is 
the nature of the dog when he hears the 
cry of his game, to crush it till it can cry 
no more.” 

A moment’s reflection taught her that, 
though her enemy, he was still her only 
hope. So she determined to change her 


146 

tactics to something gentler. 

“ Mr. Arnold — ” He raises his index 
linger, warning her not to use that name, 
though he spoke not a word. 

“ I mean ‘husband;’ I broke my prom- 
ise to remain calling you ‘husband.’ I 
confess it. I have tried to escape. But 
you have overtaken me, and I am now 
more com[)letely in your power than ever. 
I beg you in this sore necessity to be mer- 
ciful — not for my sake, but foi* Jeb who 
is perishing for water. You have water 
there in that canteen; let me give him 
drink.” 

She reaches for the water, but is re- 
pulsed. 

“ For three long days he has had nei- 
ther food nor drink. (3, sir, his innocent 
life has never offended you. It was I 
who ran away. I and 1 only am to blame. 
If you desire to torture me, you already 
have your wish, for I, too, am famishing. 
But I ask only for him. The child is dy- 
ing, sir.” 

Again she tries to get the water, and 
again is prevented 

“ O, sir, I will return to your moun- 
tain home, and be so kind to you that 


147 

you will forget luy truancy. Hear me 
swear that I will keep the vow made over 
<^lying child. Please, husband, give 
me water for Jeb ! ” 

Arnold deliberately unstops the can- 
teen, and pours the water on the ground. 
Kuth rushes to him, places her palms un- 
der the stream and moistens Jeb’s lips. 
But the child is sinking. 

“The angels of Heaven will bless you, 
sir, if you will give him but one gill of 
water.” 

She tries to arouse the baby. 

“Jeb I Jeb! Mamma’s here, baby! 
Look at me, Jeb ! ” A gasp is the only 
reply. She folds his hands, and, in ago- 
ny, walks away, kneels and prays. Ar- 
nold steps up to Jeb, and, with his foot, 
turns his head about to see if he is living. 
Observing this, Ruth dashes at him ter- 
rifically. 

“ Harry Arnold, I am no longer a tim- 
id, beaten woman, but an enraged\igress 
whose claws unsheathe at your throat. 
Conscienceless coward like every tyrant 
in history. You are but the mock-image 
of a hero. Consummate dastard, to place 
your heel on the neck of a dying infant!” 


148 

Under this tire Arnold retires a few 
feet, while she kneels over her babe. 

“ His baby face will never smile again, 
though I should kiss his lips dead-white. 
Though I may call him precious names, 
his cooing voice will not come back to 
make me music any more. Though I 
should hug him to my heart until its heat 
should warm his body through, these 
chubb} little arms will not embrace my 
neck again. I’d give the world to hear 
him say just ‘Mamma!’ once more, if 
only to call for water. 

Harry Arnold, you conquer to-day, 
but God’s eternal vengeance, swift and 
desolating, be upon you to-morrow. The 
time will come when the bitter wail of 
your soul will ascend from the bottomless 
})it, crying unto this child in Abraham’s 
bosom for one drop of water. Your om- 
inous silence is the stillness which pre- 
cedes the crash of doom . I have made my 
last concession. Rather than become 
your wife, my body shall be hacked in 
pieces; but when you carve it, it shall be 
a dish fit for the gods. You may as well 
understand once for all that I will never 
yield. I may remain your powerless cap- 


149 

live, but never as your wife. True to 
Eugene on earth, in Heaven I shall be 
true to him still. Your threats cannot 
intimidate me. Death may woo and win 
me ; but your lecherous eyes cannot charm 
me with the scorpion thought of wife. 
You have missed your mark. A coward’s 
aim is seldom true. From the echoless 
depths of my despair, I defy you, and 
challenge you to your worst. My arm is 
still mighty in that divinity in which God 
created me. I feel the majestic strength 
of my spirit that I shall one day conquer 
you. In making woman pure. Heaven 
made her great. And Heaven will smite 
and palsy your impious power!” 

Arnold reeled and fell, and Ruth 
snatched the canteen, broke the string 
from around his shoulder, and placed the 
vessel to her baby’s lips. 


XXI. 


Arnold recovered from his swoon, and 
carried Ruth and the revived child back 
to his cabin, where his proscription was 
her perpetual captivity. In the niean- 
\yhile, Major Hendrix had returned to 
Memphis, sought surgical skill and re- 
gained his sight. With a force of armed 
men, he made his way to the bandit’s 
home, resolved to secure his money, and 
then to leave Ruth with him she preferred 
to call husband. He stationed his little 
band in a covert near the cabin, and went 
unattended to the door, having first as- 
sured himself that Ruth was alone. He 
was now elegantly dressed, and looked 
quite his natural self. In order to tem- 
porarily disguise himself, he accepted her 


151 

invitation to enter by pulling his hat low 
over his forehead, bowing his head and 
placing one hand over the side of the 
face, and passing in. When he had pass- 
ed her a few feet, he turned and fully re- 
vealed himself to her. It was the su- 
preme moment of her existence. Before 
he could resist her, her arms were around 
him and her words pouring into his ears. 

“ O, Eugene at last! Husband! Hus- 
band, indeed! ” she said. 

It was with great difficulty that he dis- 
engaged her. Having done so, he thrust 
her away from him and said: 

“Hands off! That name is no longer 
mine, as my name is no longer yours.’* 

“ Why, this is Ruth ; don’t you know 
me? *’ 

“Yes, I know you! Cleopatra, take 
your Antony! ” 

“ O, Eugene, I do not understand you. 
I only know that for two long, excruciat- 
ing years, this is the first time the sun of 
my life’s joy has shone upon me.” 

“ Where is your husband? ” he de- 
manded harshly. 

“I kneel at his feet,” she said, getting 
down before him. 


“ I mean your second husband? ” 

“ I have no other husband, no other 
Jove. And I claim my rightful place in 
your heart and home.” 

“ That home fell in Sherman’s march 
to the sea. Like my once proud hopes, 
it is in ashes.” 

“ Then you will be enough for me.” 

“ And one too many. The masquerade 
is over. Ruth — Hendrix — Arnold! ” 

Rising indignantly, she met his charge. 

“Never! Ten thousand times never! 
O, Eugene, if you could know the strug- 
gle through which I have passed, and 
how, lighting for you and our child, I 
have remained immaculate as the South- 
ern lily, you would love me infinitely bet- 
ter than when you led me to the altar. 
Harry Arnold is the hydra-headed serpent 
that came into our Eden to deceive' my 
Adam as well as your Eve.” 

“ What can you expect of the future?” 

“ I expect that the seed of the woman 
shall bruise this serpent’s head. I will 
teach my little Jeb to hate the miscreant 
and avenge his mother’s shattered life. 
You left me to the care of faithful old Tom 
— the coachman. . That coachman was 


loH 

Harry Arnold in disguise. He stole Jeb, 
sent him here, made me believe he could 
find the child, took me on a long, circuitous 
joui-ney in mock-search after Jeb, spent 
much of our money and suddenly landed 
me here, where, for the first time, I be- 
held his villainy. He has endeavored to 
torture me into marrying him, but I have 
steadfastly refused. I tried to escape, 
was lost in the forest, recaptured and 
compelled to return here. And this only 
to save Jeb’s life and mine. Let me 
bring Jeb to you? ” 

“Not now, Mrs. Arnold; I have other 
business for the present; I may see Jeb 
later” 

“Eugene, do not mock my broken 
spirit with that despicable name. I tell 
you — he is not — my husband I I am your 
wife, as Jeb is our child.” 

“ I claim my child; I have no wife. 
You married him for money! ” 

“ Xot while the earth retains one spark 
of virtue. If I had so desired, I could 
have sold out to Avarice before I mar- 
ried you for love.” 

Old Hamp could not stay far away 
from such scenes as he had anticipated 


154 

l)etween Ruth and his master. He had 
stood at the door, peeping in for some 
time, and he was so heartbroken because 
of his master’s sternness, he assumed 
control of the situation and dashed into 
the room. 

“ O, Miss Roof, my heart’s des er 
breakin’ fer ye. I couldn’ stay out dar 
no longer,” and he seizes her hands, 
pressing them to his bosom. The Major 
had taken a seat and was looking over 
some papers with which he would not on- 
ly convince Ruth of his righteous indig- 
nation, but also demonstrate his right to 
Arnold's money. 

“ O, Ilamp, dear old Ilamp, what 
must I do? ” said Ruth in sobs. 

“ Ef Ize Marse Gene, I’d tek ye, God 
knows I’d tek ye, n’ be so good ter ^e 
dat ye’d fergit de troubles whut ye done 
had nuff uv, de Lawd knows ” 

“Ilamp, you’re a black idiot!” ex- 
claimed the Major, still examining his 
papers. Hamp rushed over to him and 
patted him on the shoulder authoritatively. 

“Ye des hoi’ up right dar, now. Doan 
ye say anudder wud. I raise you! Raise 
ye ebber sence ye wuz knee-high to er 


155 

duck, ’ll’ Ize got de same right ter spank 
ye whut I alius had when ye gits out’n 
gear. Ye des quit yer cavortin’ ’roun’ 
hyuh, ’n’ listen to de wuds uv wisdom 
f ’ill yer uncle Hampton. Dishere flustra- 
tion gwineter be squushed in de shell. I 
warns ye in de solemn languidge uv de 
Bible, (loan ye let de sun go down on yer 
wraf. De good book say fergib seben 
hund’rd and sebenty seben times. Now 
lemme argify de case wid ye. Miss Koof , 
she did er she didn’ marry dat man. Ef 
she didn’, den yez erkillin’ de lies’ ooman 
in de work. ’N’ ef she did, she’s des ez 
sorry ez a sinnah at a mo’ner’s bench, ’n’ 
w’en she come ’pentin' diserway, ye des 
boun’ fer ter hab mussy. Dat de gospill. 
Ef de good Lawd been hyuh, he done fer- 
gib her ‘fo’ she ax him. Ye inns’ mem’er 
dat ef she did tek him, she zerve some 
credit, kaze hit wuz monstus hard fer any 
ooman ter git er husband endurin’ de 
war.” 

Ilamp had quietly and stealthily pulled 
Ruth up close to where the Major sat, 
and he now placed her hand in his and 
held them both as if in a vice. 

“ Now den ye’z done married ergin 


allhunkydory. Leinnie go ’n’ git de ba- 
l)y, ’n’ le’s go home ’n’ be happy lak de 
birds.’’ 

The Major coldly orders Hainp from 
the room. He goes at once, and leaves 
the two in the gloom of irreconcilability. 


XXII. 


With his depositions, iiffidavits, certif- 
icates and other memoranda in his hands, 
the Major began the statement of his 
case. 

“Now, Mrs. Arnold this is the last 
interview we shall ever have in this world. 
That I might be courteous, I have pa- 
tiently heard your story. That I may he 
justified in renouncing you to-night, — ” 

“ O, Eugene!” and she fell prostrate 
in the floor. 

“ J ask }Ou to listen to mine. I re- 
turned to the war, fought in many bat- 
tles, and, at Gettysburg, on the second 
day, a bomb burst near me and put out 
my eyes. I was taken to the hospital and 
pronounced hopelessly blind. I was then 
taken home. My friends there said you 


158 

had not been heard of for months. They 
told me you were searching for Jeb with 
Tom, and finally the news came that you 
had died of grief. My letters had been 
answered and signed by you. This could 
not be reconciled with the fact that you 
had not been seen in the city for so long. 
Thinking over these conflicting stories, I 
began to suspect treachery. Taking old 
Hamp with me, for I was still blind, I 
searched till I stood outside this cabin — 
there. I heard you saying ‘husband,’ and 
him saying ‘wife.’ I determined to leave 
you with your paramour. You remember 
the old blind man. It was I — I to whom 
you gave the crust of bread — I who kissed 
the hand that smote me, the hand of my 
wife, my wife no more. I returned to 
Memphis. A local physician examined 
my eyes and found in the ball of one of 
them a hard substance which proved to 
be a piece of hard wood pressing against 
the optic nerve without penetrating it. 
He removed the splinter, and my vision 
was soon restored. I again reported for 
duty in the war. After the battle of 
Chancellorsville, I was walking over the 
field, when I beheld a mail sitting upright 


159 

against a tree. Approaching him, I made 
three important discoveries. First, that 
it was Felix Manning. Second, that he 
was dead. Third, that he was holding in 
his hand a picture at which he was evi- 
dently looking while dying. I have the 
picture here, and will read you the writ- 
ing then found on the back of it: 

“ ‘ This is the photograph of Harry 
Arnold. If I am slain in battle, I hereby 
empower the finder of this picture to 
open and read the letter deposited in my 
name in the bank of which I was mana- 
ger in Memphis, Tennessee. Harry Ar- 
nold is a bandit and robber, and his home 
is about sixty miles northeast of the vil- 
lage of Jonesboro, East Tennessee. 

(Signed) Felix Manning.’ 

“ The bank here referred to had been 
closed. But I sought and found the pa- 
pers in The People’s Bank of Tennessee. 
Harry Arnold is a robber by profession. 
Felix had been his faithful ally, and had 
been rewarded with the presidency of the 
bank which Arnold’s ill-gotten money 
made possible. Arnold is the thief who 
stole iny money. Felix could have con- 
victed him, but the same evidence was fa- 


160 

tal to both. The entire sum is some- 
where about these premises. I am here 
with a sufhcieiit force to stream this 
mountain with blood. We shall compel 
Harry Arnold to produce that money, and 
you to surrender Jeb. This is my story; 
where is your husband?” 

“Eugene, hear me in mercy if not in 
love. I know nothing of any letters sign- 
ed in my name. I did say ‘husband,' and 
he did say ‘wife,’ but they were void of 
sweetness and of truth. He said that if 1 
would remain calling him ‘husband,’ and 
allow him to address me only as ‘wife’ for 
two years, he would release me if, at the 
expiration of that time, I did not wish 
to marry him. My captivity was as fixed 
as though I had been in the Bastile or the 
Tower. There was no alternative. I 
gladly agreed, because I saw you at the 
end of those two terrible years. But 
there were none of the endearing evi- 
dences of marriage beyond these two 
mechanical words. They were all. Xev- 
er a caress; never an affectionate fare- 
well ; never a demonstrative greeting; 
never a tender look; never a social con- 
versation.” 


161 

“ I could not see, for I was blind; but 
I heard the tenderest tones in your re- 
sponses: ‘yes, husband;’ ‘all right, hus- 
band.’ ” 

“If these expressions had any sem- 
blance of tenderness, it was but the burn- 
ing of a new-made hope that I should one 
day be restored to you.” 

“ Your story is beautiful fiction, but it 
cannot pass as truth.” 

“ With my palms invoking the blessing 
or the curse of Heaven, I solemnly swear 
that I have gone through this crucial test 
of my love and virtue, and now stand in 
your presence pure gold — unchanged and 
unchangeable.” 

“ I prefer the metal with the stamp of 
the United States upon it. I have the 
papers, your husband has the money; 
where is he? ” 

“ Harry Arnold will be here presently; 
and when he comes, I will exonerate my 
life from the charges you make upon it. 
In an hour of danger you deny me 
that protection which I acquired and you 
assumed at the marriage altar. I now 
ask you only to defend me from violence 
at the hands of Harry Arnold.” 


162 


“ All I can promise is that, in my pres- 
ence, he shall do yon no bodily harm.” 

“ And that is all I ask. Do but that, 
and I will show you how your own wife’s 
honor is above that villain’s touch and her 
husband’s reproach. I think I hear him 
at the barn. Stand behind that door and 
observe.” 

Curious rather than credulous, the Ma- 
jor stepped behind the door and awaited 
the coming scene, but directed her to 
make her fruitless parley with Arnold 
very brief, as he himself expected to 
proceed with his previously announced 
purpose. Arnold soon entered and pass- 
ed across the room. Ruth made the hap- 
py discovery that he was unarmed. She 
took her position in the door, which was 
the only place of exit from the room ex- 
cept two small windows through which a 
man could scarcely pass in haste. As 
Arnold stood gazing through one of these 
jail-like openings, his back still to Ruth, 
she boldly and firmly said : 

“ Harry Arnold! ” 

fie whirled instantly at the sound of 
the unaccustomed address, and as he 
turned, Ruth swung the door on its rusty 


KiH 

hinges and revealed the Major at her side. 
To Arnold it was a paralyzing sight. He 
had so long reveled in security, so long 
posed as victor, so long defied law and 
order, that the sudden transition into cap- 
tivity benumbed his senses and stupefied 
his courage. 

“ Major Hendrix,” he said, “if I were 
armed, you well know what a trial of 
skill we should have at this moment.” 

The Major did not reply. Old Ilamp 
had stood outside in the chimney corner, 
where, through a chink, he had witnessed 
the proceedings thus far with nervous in- 
terest. Learning that Arnold was un- 
armed and hemmed in Ijy the Major, the 
desire to march against the desperado was 
irresistible. Before Arnold could utter 
another sentence, Ilamp bounded into the 
room pompously flourishing a ponderous 
navy-six. Vengeance was running hot 
through the negro’s veins, for he recalled 
that woful night when he himself danced 
mightily before the bandit’s rifle. Hold- 
ing the rusty old weapon on Arnold, and 
twiching nervously, he spoke the honest 
request of his soul : 

“ Lemme kill ’im, Marse Gene; lemme 


164 

kill ’im; Ize des er dyin’ fer ter kill 
somebody! ” 

The Major endeavored to stop the lo- 
quacious darkey, but in vain. The mem- 
ory of the outlaw’s indignities upon his 
negroship, on a previous occasion, chafed 
him beyond endurance. He was just 
bound to tell him of it. With unuttera- 
ble relish he began: 

“ I say, Mr. Arnold, hit seem lak I 
’member one time ye had de ’vantage uv 
me.’’ 

And Hamp laughed in overwhelming 
satisfaction that the situation was now so 
happily reversed. Shaking that barbar- 
ous looking specimen of firearms in Ar- 
nold’s face, he continued: 

“Talk ter me, now, er Ize gwineter 
lay ye out fer ter dry. Kin ye run? 
Hinph?” 

Another uproarious burst of laughter 
kept the Major in abeyance. 

“ I say, Mr. Arnold, I wants ye to start 
down dishere mountain double quick, and 
not stop till ye straks de 0-CEAX! ! ” 

Ilamp had never dreamed that revenge 
could be so sweet. He literally doubled 
himself up in uncontrollable hilarity. 


165 

“ Ye hyuh me? Hmph? Co'se ye hyuhs 
me. Say, Mr. Arnold, kin ye dance? 
Ilmph? Member uv de chu’ch, haint ye?” 

The ecstatic negro’s muscles so relaxed 
that he dropped on his knees and laughed 
himself into pain. The Major had com- 
manded silence, but old Hamp had a 
present monopoly of the scene, and he 
was going to finish at the risk of a hog- 
ging. 

“Talk up de troof dar, now. Kin ye 
dance? Hmph?” 

“No! ” said Arnold, grulfiy. 

“Den I’ll des kill ye ’n’ th’ow ye ter 
de buzzards. O, Miss Roof, weze gwine- 
ter hab er whole camp-meetin’ gwine on 
here treckly. Co’se ye kin dance. Strak 
up de double shufile dar. No time now 
fer argyment.” 

“ Hamp !” The soft voice of his “Mis- 
sus” took him momentarily from his pur- 
pose. 

“ O, Miss Roof, de wah done over, ’n’ 
de niggers gwineter govern dis kintry, 
Norf ’n’ Souf.” 

“M^hat are you going to do, Hamp?” 

“ O, Miss Roof, Ize des er gwineter 
res’ fer er whole gineration.” 


166 


“Well, you must hush now; I want to 
talk some myself.” 

“Yes’m, yes’m; uv co’se ye has cle . 
flo’.” 

Ilamp had not quite anticipated what 
was going to happen, but he was now 
willing to j:urn matters over to “Miss 
Eoof,” and risk her judgment for a final 
conclusion. To him, vengeance was the 
dominating rule of action. If reconcilia- 
tion between “Miss Roof and Marse Gene” 
could not be effected otherwise, it was 
his fixed determination to remove the last 
obstacle by religiously expediting Arnold 
into eternity. His Mistress’ wishes were 
now sacred, and he did not dare to disre- 
spect them. Brandishing his siege-gun 
over the captive, he said: 

“ Talk ter de lady lak er genterman, 
sir. Ef ye doan show up des zackly right, 
Ize gwineter tu’n ye over ter de sheriff’s 
uv de sky.” 

“ Harry Arnold!” said Ruth; “ Tell 
the story of your villainy; and do not 
dare to deviate one iota from the truth.” 

Ilamp shook his howitzer uncomforta- 
bly close to Arnold’s face, and gave him 
a significant wink of warning, as much as 


lf)7 

to say that disobedience meant death. 

“Who was old Tom?” continued 
Ruth. 

“ It was I, Harry Arnold, in disguise,*’ 
answered the man who now believed it 
would be better to admit at least some of 
the truth. 

“ Who stole Jeb? ” 

“I.” 

“ Your conduct afterwards?” 

“I sent the child here where he has 
remained ever since. I stayed with you in 
apparent innocence, made you believe I 
had a clue to the child’s whereabouts, 
and that, with your money and your as- 
sistance, I could recover Jeb. You were 
wild with grief, and begged for your hus- 
band. It was impossible to reach Major 
Hendrix, as he was then in the Army. 
You finally consented to go with me and 
furnish the necessary funds. I carried 
you over a long, tedious journey, kept 
}Ou in constant expectation that each suc- 
ceeding day would bring the child, mak- 
ing bogus telegrams from bogus officers 
and detectives, spending much of your 
money, bringing you here at last, where 
I threw off my disguise, and, for the first 


168 

time, you recognized me.” 

“ Tell about our marriage.” 

‘ There has been no marriage. We 
have been as far aloof from the matrimo- 
nial state as the wolf and the lamb.” 

“ But we said ‘husband’ and ‘wife.’” 

“ Yes, 1 was trying to test you.” 

“ What about the letters answered in 
my name?” 

“ It was done by my accomplices in 
Memphis.” 

“ Tell about robbing Eugene before he 
became my husband.” 

“Ruth, I— I—” 

“ Remember the warning.” 

Old Hamp was getting so impatient 
that his displeasure was taking a decided- 
ly tragic trend. From Arnold he was 
going to have the whole truth or blood. 

“ At your peril I command you to tell 
it all,” said Ruth; but Arnold only stub- 
bornly shook his head. 

Hamp was ready to explode, and the 
only safety-valve was the powder in the 
barrel of his navy-six. Holding the gun 
on Arnold and speaking with a positive 
military tone, he said: 

“ Once I ” then paused a moment. 


169 

“ Twice! ” and paused again. He was 
going to pull the trigger for “thrice,” 
but Arnold wisely proceeded : 

“ I did rob him of half a million.” 

“ Where is that money? ” asked Euth. 

“ I loaned it to the Confederate Gov - 
ernment and lost it.” 

“ But you have often told me that you 
had an abundance of money. Where is 
it?” 

“ That I do not have to tell,” answer- 
ed Arnold defiantly. “I am not alto- 
gether in your power yet. If you intend 
to get my money and then have me killed, 
you have miscalculated. I am willing to 
make myself practically dead to you all 
by going into voluntary banishment. 
Grant me life, and I will suffer expatria- 
tion by making the South Sea Islands my 
home, never returning to the United 
States. Thus you will carry your point 
completely — secure your money and get 
rid of me forever. Kill me, and you get 
nothing except the satisfaction conse- 
quent upon my death. Take your choice.” 

“ I promise that when you have pro- 
duced the money and gone into perpetual 
banishment, the demands I make upon 


170 

you shall be satisfied.” 

“ O Miss Roof, I’ll des run ’ini clean 
off ’n de coas’ uv Floridy ! ” blurted Hanip, 
unable to contain his delight any longer. 

“But your re-appearance upon Amer- 
ican soil, Mr. Arnold,” continued Ruth, 
“will place your life at my disposal. 
Where is that money? ” 

“ Under this cabin floor.” 

“ How much did you offer me to mar- 
ry you? ” 

“ I offered to make you the richest 
woman South of The Mason-And-Dixon 
Line.” 

“ My reply? ” 

“ You said that if I should melt the 
stars into gold it could not purchase your 
respect.” 

“ What do you think of my fidelity to 
Major Hendrix?” 

“I believe the united cunning and 
cruelty of the universe could not destroy 
it.” 

“ Tell of your unkindness to me.” 

“ In order to make you marry me, I 
have tortured you like a conscienceless 
demon.” 

“ What encouragement have I given 


171 


you?*’ 

“You have never made one single con- 
cession nor uttered one gentle word to 
me that did not look to your final happi- 
ness with Major Hendrix.” 

The testimony being now complete, 
Ruth kneels before the Major, folds her 
white hands across her breast, bows her 
head in timid humility and awaits his 
final decision. 

At the bidding of such love as hers his 
dead affection springs back into life, and 
his desecrated faith comes forth purged 
and purified in its own resurrection. And 
over his doubting life there dawns anoth- 
er faith that opens Heaven to his soul. 
From this Gethsemane of tears and pray- 
ers he looks beyond and sees The Christ. 
From the gloom of the past a better ex- 
istence has begun, and swinging out from 
the present and arching over the future 
is the promise of a better world. The 
strong arms that had resisted her ap- 
proach now hold her warm and true, and 
the voice that had denounced her seem- 
ing infidelity renews the holy covenant of 
love and life here and hereafter : 


172 


“You have passed through the lion's 
den, but God’s angel closed the lion’s 
mouth. O Ruth, my wife, my queen! 
‘ I will not leave thee. Where thou goest, 
I will go; thy people shall be my people, 
and thy God my God!”’ 








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